
Class _X-K^ 



Book 



-^ 



Copyright N". 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



6061 *^L ^^^i 



PRAED'S POEMS 




y'/^oxy ..^ /^^^ 



POEMS 



BY 



WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED 
WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
BY FERRIS GREENSLET 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

MDCCCCIX 






COPTBIGHT 1909 

BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



©G1.A25, 



CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION ix 

POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS 

EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

I. THE VICAR 3 

II. QUINCE 9 

III. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 15 

IV. MY PARTNER 21 

V. PORTRAIT OF A LADY 27 

THE COUNTY BALL 33 

TO JULIO, ON HIS COMING OF AGE 68 

TO JULIA, PREPARING FOR HER FIRST 

SEASON IN TOWN 74 

MARRIAGE 83 

THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 86 

TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 92 

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 97 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 103 
V 



CONTENTS 

THE FANCY BALL 109 

A LETTER OF ADVICE 116 

THE TALENTED MAN 122 
LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 

I. OUR BALL 126 

II. PRIVATE THEATRICALS 132 

TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 136 

UTOPIA 139 

MARRIAGE CHIMES 145 

SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 150 

PALINODIA 155 

POEMS OF LOVE AND SENTIMENT 

MY FIRST FOLLY 163 
STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE FIRST 

LEAF OF "LILLIAN" 165 

l'iNCONNUE 168 

TO 170 

AN EXCUSE 173 



CONTENTS 

SECOND LOVE 175 
LOVE AT A ROUT 178 
THE MODERN NECTAR 182 
MY OWN FUNERAL 186 
time's song 189 
FROM METASTASIO 191 
REMEMBER ME 192 
FUIMUS! 194 
LINES, SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOT- 
TLE OF VERY FINE OLD BRANDY 196 
STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A PIC- 
TURE OF king's COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 198 
LINES, WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE 

OF "the keepsake" 200 

ANTICIPATION 202 

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 205 

childhood's CRITICISM 209 

BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 213 

HOW AM I LIKE HER? 217 



CONTENTS 

LINES 220 

THE NEWLY-WEDDED 223 

TO HELEN, WITH CRABBE's POEMS 225 

SONNET, WRITTEN IN THE FIRST 
LEAF OF LOCKHART's "lIFE OF 
SIR WALTER SCOTT" 226 

TO HELEN, "when SOME GRIM SOR- 
CERESS, WHOSE skill" 227 
TO HELEN, "dearest, I DID NOT 

DREAM " 228 

THE RED FISHERMAN 229 



INTRODUCTION 



INTRODUCTION 

Anything so charming as the verse in this vol- 
ume stands in small need of elaborate intro- 
duction. Candidates for academic honor are 
brought forward with a catalogue of their abili- 
ties and virtues, but a word is enough to com- 
mend a smiling girl to our favorable attention. 
The gay Muse of Praed is not presented here 
for a critical degree, yet mayhap the reader's en- 
joyment will be keener if he receives a hint of 
her varied accomplishments. 

When Winthrop Mackworth Praed was born 
in London in 180'-2, Keats was a child of seven, 
Shelley a boy of ten, and Wordsworth a young 
man of thirty-two, just become tranquil after 
the fer\dd inspiration of the French Revolution. 
British gentlemen in those days still considered 
Pope the poetic paragon of the world : Praed's 
father was such a gentleman, who also wrote 
fluent and correct couplets for family occasions, 



INTRODUCTION 

though the specimens offered in the official me- 
moir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge do not in- 
dicate that it was from the father that the poet's 
sense of humor came. His mother, who was of 
that family of Winthrops of which a younger 
branch is famous in the annals of New England, 
died a year after his birth, leaving him to the care 
of an elder sister. The future poet was a deli- 
cate, precocious, indoors child. His early read- 
ing was guided by the eighteenth-century taste 
of his father, yet his best loved authors were 
Plutarch and Shakespeare. At Eton, whither he 
went in due course, he took numerous prizes for 
English verse, and won distinction for his Latin 
lyrics as well as for the perfect calligraphy, — 
which seems to be characteristic of writers of 
vers de societe. At Cambridge he was, in the deco- 
rous phrase of the excellent Coleridge, '* not de- 
voted exclusively, or even mainly, to the pursuit 
of University distinction." Indeed, save for occa- 
sional moody fits, he exemplified to perfection 
the gay undergraduate of talent. Yet the talent 



INTRODUCTION 

was as conspicuous as the gayety. At debate he 
excelled, and his spirited encounters with Ma- 
caulay became a tradition ; but it was in humane 
letters that he chiefly made his mark. Under 
the pen-names, curiously significant of the two 
elements of his talent, Peregrine Courtenay and 
Vyvyan Joyeuse, whimsy and romance, he sent 
to the magazines verse and prose of a notable 
vivacity, polish, and point. 

But, despite the applause that followed his 
early writing, poetry was for Praed never any- 
thing more than an avocation. In 1829 he was 
called to the bar. In the following year, influ- 
enced it is clear rather by deep temperamental 
affinities than, as was charged against him, by 
interest, he left the Liberal Party, and entered 
Parliament as a supporter of Peel and the Con- 
servatives. Thence onward his life was a busy 
one. By virtue of his personal charm and bril- 
liant gifts he soon took a notable place among 
the younger Parliamentarians, and having at- 
tracted the notice of the Duke of Wellington he 



INTRODUCTION 

was appointed in 1834 Secretary to the Board 
of Control. Shortly afterwards he became De- 
puty High Steward of the University of Cam- 
bridge; while in 1838 he played an important 
part in the agitation which led in the following 
year to the introduction of a national system of 
education. 

Praed's elder sister, who had been almost the 
sole companion of his boyhood, and to whom he 
was tenderly attached, died in 1830. In 1835 he 
married, in how fine and full a union the poems 
"To Helen" show. After his marriage his liter- 
ary faculty became more fruitful than ever, and 
he seemed destined for a long and brilliant ca- 
reer in both statecraft and letters. But the gods 
vidlled otherwise. His health, always delicate, 
began to fail, and in July of 1839, gay and pro- 
ductive to the end, he died of a quick consump- 
tion. He was, in his relations with men, a witty, 
well-bred gentleman, loyal in love and friend- 
ship, untiring in the public service, valiant be- 
fore the world. From his poetry we know him 



INTRODUCTION 

to have been a tender, whimsical soul, acquies- 
cent in the temper of the early Victorian years, 
yet keenly though calmly aware of their sins 
and absurdities; able to 

Make the most delicious sonnets. 

In spite of diamonds and French bonnets. 

So far as we can judge from Praed's earliest 
verses, his chief and strongest poetic impulse 
came from the old English ballad that the eight- 
eenth century had so lately rediscovered. The 
bulk of his writing — though not perhaps the 
best of it — is in the form of narrative poems 
written in the ballad temper whimsicalized, so 
to speak, while his habitual phrase is colloquial 
and ballad-like, only occasionally heightened; 
almost never "literary." It is always fluent, 
airy, melodious; yet always, despite its collo- 
quialism, it shows the neatness, the polish, the 
perfect solution of syntax in metre, which are 
the marks of scholarship in poetry. Its highly 
individual flavor lies chiefly in the poet's skill 
in playing on the repeated word, the humorous 



INTRODUCTION 

catalogue, the unexpected collocation. Take 
the enumeration of the young gentleman's pur- 
chases at the Spanish Bazaar in "Good Night 
to the Season." It is a perfect illustration of 
Praed's habitual manner : — 

Good night to the Season ! — the splendour 

That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar; 
Where I purchased — my heart was so tender — 

A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 
A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 

A lithographed Riego, full-grown. 
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 

That artists might draw him on stone ; 
A small panorama of Seville, 

A trap for demolishing flies, 
A caricature of the Devil, 

And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 

A selection and arrangement of Praed's poems 
which aims to present him only at his best, and 
by the sequence of pieces to show the orderly 
development and proportion of his talents, does 
not need to contain many of his versified tales. 
Charming as they are in their rapid flow of 
xvi 



INTRODUCTION 

whimsical narrative, it is easy to put them down 
unfinished, and even when completely read they 
quickly avoid the memory. There is one, how- 
ever, which no selection of Praed's work, how- 
ever rigorous its lines, could exclude. " The Red 
Fisherman" is remarkable among all his verse 
for sheer imaginative power, for the abiding 
impression that it leaves. It has his customary 
neatness and fanciful grace ; there is even a rich 
beauty of natural imagery, yet for grisly satiric 
force it stands alone among his poems and with 
the best in this kind. The reader of his poetry 
who comes suddenly upon it for the first time 
experiences something of the wild surmise that 
awaits a reader of Shelley who encounters un- 
aware such a piece as "Swellfoot the Tyrant." 
Were it not that Praed's work, for all his early 
death, is so complete, varied, and self-contained, 
one would arise from the reading of "The Red 
Fisherman" wath regret that he did not culti- 
vate more ^'igo^ously the graver satiric Muse. 
Yet as it is, the poem is of the first value to re- 



INTRODUCTION 

mind us from what deep waters of the imagina- 
tion even light poetry comes. 

It is open to any one reading Praed's poems 
of love and sentiment to term them artificial, 
— but this is to miss his essential quality and 
charm. He wrote, it is true, among an artificial 
people, in a highly artificial age, but he wrote 
with a sincerity, an authentic poetic impulse, 
that makes the result anything but artificial. Of 
all the English poets, Praed has the best right 
to be styled "the bard of the ball-room," but 
it is a ball-room idealized, its lights curiously 
interpenetrated with the glamour of romance. 

I love a ball ! there 's such an air 
Of magic in the lustres' glare, 
And such a spell of witchery 
In all I bear and all I see. 
That I can read in every dance 
Some relic sweet of old romance. 

So Praed sings in " The County Ball." In " Love 
at a Rout," he has a still clearer profession of 
faith. 



INTRODUCTION 

I own fair faces not more fair 

In Ettrick than in Portman Square, 

And silly danglers just as silly 

In Sherwood as in Piccadilly. 

Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt, 

For having harps to help them out ; 

And smiles are not a ray more bright 

By moonbeams, than by candle-light; 

I know much magic oft reposes 

On wreaths of artificial roses, 

And snowy necks, — X never found them 

Quite spoilt by having cameos round them. 

But love and sentiment in Praed's poetry 
are by no means altogether an affair of the ball- 
room. If the reader will read in order the poems 
as I have ventured to arrange them, following a 
rough chronological order, he will feel a steady 
deepening of the note, as he passes from the 
songs of light love and easy laughter, urbane 
yearning and mild regret, to the pieces embody- 
ing Praed's affection for his sister, and finally to 
the series "To Helen," and the last brave poem, 
wTitten only a week before his death, full of the 
poet's tender, constant heart. 



INTRODUCTION 

There is, too, a group of his pieces quite dif- 
ferent in flavor, and containing his most char- 
acteristic and enduring work, which show a 
broader outlook and a deeper insight. The 
poems of life and manners give us Praed at his 
very best, and in this kind, who is better ? Take 
the series of "Every-day Characters," — take in 
particular "The Vicar," — for what other char- 
acter described in light verse do we have such 
a peculiar feeling of humorous affection, such an 
enduring regard? 

But if Praed was more than "the bard of the 
ball-room," a kind of Cantabrigian Tom Moore, 
he was, nevertheless, in a fine and permanent 
way, essentially that. Even in the poems of life 
and manners, the point of view is distinctly a 
social one in the narrower sense. This is the 
secret of his piquancy and of his permanence. 
The manners depicted are those of other days, 
yet of days that have come, perhaps in part be- 
cause of their portrayal by such poets as Praed, 
to be typical of certain enduring phases of civ- 



INTRODUCTION 



ilized life. When we speak of vers de societe, 
the "society" that comes into our minds is pre- 
cisely his, — the society of harp and candlelight, 
of "diamonds and French bonnets." 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
I 

THE VICAR 

Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way, between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the green. 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle. 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say — 

" Our master knows you — you 're expected." 
3 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warmed himself in Court or College, 
He had not gained an honest friend 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, — 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or hquor, — 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream, which runs 
With rapid change from rocks to roses : 

It slipped from politics to puns. 
It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
4 



THE VICAR 

Beginning with the laws which keep 
The planets in their radiant courses. 

And ending with some precept deep 
For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stabhshed Truth, or startled Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep ; 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; 
And the lean Le\ite went to sleep. 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or showed 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius : 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penned and planned 
them. 
For all who understood admired. 

And some who did not understand them. 
5 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 

And hints to noble Lords — and nurses; 
True histories of last year's ghost, 

Lines to a ringlet, or a turban. 
And trifles for the Morning Post, 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair. 

Although he had a knack of joking; 
He did not make himself a bear. 

Although he had a taste for smoking; 
And when religious sects ran mad. 

He held, in spite of all his learning. 
That if a man's belief is bad. 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 
In the low hut or garnished cottage. 

And praise the farmer's homely wit, 

And share the widow's homelier pottage ; 
() 



THE VICAR 

At his approach complaint grew mild ; 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter. 
The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome which they co^ild not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus ; 
From him I learnt the rule of three, 

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Qugb genus: 
I used to singe his powdered wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in. 
And make the puppy dance a jig, 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack the change ! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, - 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled; 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more, 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 
7 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 

Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid ? — look down 

And construe on the slab before you, 
*'Hic jacet Gvlielmvs Brown, 

Vir nulla non donandus lauru.'* 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

II 

QUINCE 

Fallentis semita vitae. — Hob. 

Near a small village in the West, 

Where many very worthy people 
Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best 

To guard from e\il Church and steeple, 
There stood — alas! it stands no more! — 

A tenement of brick and plaster. 
Of w^hich, for forty years and four. 

My good friend Quince was lord and master. 

Welcome was he in hut and hall 

To maids and matrons, peers and peasants ; 
He won the sympathies of all 

By making puns, and making presents. 
Though all the parish were at strife. 

He kept his counsel, and his carriage. 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

He laughed, and loved a quiet life, 

And shrank from Chancery suits — and mar- 
riage. 

Sound was his claret — and his head; 

Warm was his double ale — and feelings; 
His partners at the whist club said 

That he was faultless in his dealings : 
He went to church but once a week ; 

Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him 
An upright man, who studied Greek, 

And liked to see his friends around him. 

Asylums, hospitals and schools, 

He used to swear, were made to cozen ; 
All who subscribed to them were fools, — 

And he subscribed to half-a-dozen : 
It was his doctrine, that the poor 

Were always able, never willing ; 
And so the beggar at his door 

Had first abuse, and then — a shilling. 
10 



QUINCE 

Some public principles he had, 

But was no flatterer, nor fretter; 
He rapped his box when things were bad, 

And said "I cannot make them better!" 
And much he loathed the patriot's snort. 

And much he scorned the placeman's snuflfle ; 
And cut the fiercest quarrels short 

With — "Patience, gentlemen — and shuffle ! " 

For full ten years his pointer Speed 

Had couched beneath her master's table ; 
For twice ten years his old white steed 

Had fattened in his master's stable ; 
Old Quince averred, upon his troth. 

They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; 
And none knew why he fed them both. 

With his own hands, six days in seven. 

Wliene'er they heard his ring or knock, 
Quicker than thought, the village slatterns 

Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, 
And took up IVIrs. Glasse, and patterns; 
11 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Adine was studying baker's bills ; 

Louisa looked the queen of knitters ; 
Jane happened to be hemming frills ; 

And Bell, by chance, was making fritters. 

But all was vain ; and while decay 

Came, like a tranquil moonlight, o'er him, 
And found him gouty still, and gay. 

With no fair nurse to bless or bore him. 
His rugged smile and easy chair. 

His dread of matrimonial lectures. 
His wig, his stick, his powdered hair, 

Were themes for very strange conjectures. 

Some sages thought the stars above 

Had crazed him with excess of knowledge ; 
Some heard he had been crost in love 

Before he came away from College ; 
Some darkly hinted that his Grace 

Did nothing, great or small, without him ; 
Some whispered, A\ith a solemn face. 

That there was " something odd about him ! ' 
12 



QUINCE 

I found him, at threescore and ten, 

A single man, but bent quite double; 
Sickness was coming on him then 

To take him from a world of trouble : 
He prosed of slipping down the hill, 

Discovered he grew older daily ; 
One frosty day he made his will, — 

The next, he sent for Doctor Bailey. 

And so he lived, — and so he died ! — 

When last I sat beside his pillow 
He shook my hand, and "Ah!" he cried, 

"Penelope must wear the ^\411ow. 
Tell her I hugged her rosy chain 

While life was flickering in the socket ; 
And say, that when I call again, 

I '11 bring a licence in my pocket. 

"I've left my house and grounds to Fag, — 
I hope his master's shoes vnll suit him ; 

And I 've bequeathed to you my nag. 
To feed him for my sake, — or shoot him, 
13 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

The Vicar's wife will take old Fox, — 
She '11 find him an uncommon mouser, 

And let her husband have my box, 
My Bible, and my Assmanshauser. 

"Whether I ought to die or not, 

My Doctors cannot quite determine ; 
It 's only clear that I shall rot, 

And be, like Priam, food for vermin. 
My debts are paid : — but Nature's debt 

Almost escaped my recollection : 
Tom! — we shall meet again; — and yet 

I cannot leave you my direction ! " 



14 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
III 

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 

II faut juger des femmes depuis la chaussure jusqii'a la coif- 
fure exclusivement, a pen pres comme on mesure le poisson entre 
queue et tete. —La BRurtRE. 

Years — years ago, ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wnse or witty, — 
Ere I had done with WTiting themes, 

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty; — 
Years — years ago, — while all my joy 

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lily. 

I saw her at the County Ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
15 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
And then she danced — O Heaven, her 
dancing ! 

Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ! 
Her every look, her every smile, 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 't was Venus from her isle. 

And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 

She talked, — of politics or prayers, — 

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's son- 
nets, — 
Of danglers — or of dancing bears, 

Of battles — or the last new bonnets. 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it mattered not a tittle ; 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmured Little. 
16 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frowned ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a Dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
She had one brother, just thirteen, 

WTiose colour was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 

But titles, and the three per cents.. 
And mortgages, and great relations. 

And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 
Oh what are they to love's sensations } 
17 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 
Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; 

He cares as little for the Stocks, 

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew loveher from her pencil's shading : 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; 

She made the Catalani jealous ; 
She touched the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well filled with all an album's glories ; 
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 

And recipes for elder- water. 
18 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
Her poodle dog was quite adored, 

Her sayings were extremely quoted ; 
She laughed, and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolished ; 
She frowned, and every look was sad. 

As if the Opera were demolished. 

She smiled on many, just for fun, — 

I knew that there was nothing in it; 
I was the first — the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute. — 
I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand, — and oh! 

How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 

Our love was like most other loves ; 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 

And "Fly not yet" — upon the river; 
19 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 

A miniature, a lock of hair. 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 

We parted; months and years rolled by; 

We met again four summers after : 
Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers ; 
And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 

But only — Mrs. Something Rogers! 



20 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 



IV 



MY PARTNER 

There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the 
whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing 
fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are 
immersed. — British Almanack. 

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill 

Of folly and cold water, 
I danced last year my first quadrille 

With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter. 
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, 

Wlien summer's rose is newest ; 
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, 

WTien autumn's sky is bluest ; 
And well my heart might deem her one 

Of life's most precious flowers. 
For half her thoughts were of its sun, 

And half were of its showers. 



21 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

I spoke of Novels : — " Vi\aan Grey" 

Was positively charming, 
And "Almacks" infinitely gay, 

And "Frankenstein" alarming; 
I said "De Vere" was chastely told, 

Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," 
Called IVIr. Banim's sketches "bold," 

And Lady Morgan's "racy," 
I vowed that last new thing of Hook's 

Was vastly entertaining : 
And Laura said — "I dote on books. 

Because it's always raining.' " 

I talked of Music's gorgeous fane ; 

I raved about Rossini, 
Hoped Ronzi would come back again. 

And criticised Pacini ; 
I wished the chorus-singers dumb, 

The trumpets more pacific. 
And eulogised Brocard's a plomb. 

And voted Paul "terrific!" 



22 



MY PARTNER 

What cared she for Medea's pride. 

Or Desdemona's sorrow ? 
" Alas ! " my beauteous Hstener sighed, 

"We must have rain to-morrow! " 



I told her tales of other lands ; 

Of ever-boiling fountains, 
Of poisonous lakes and barren sands. 

Vast forests, trackless mountains : 
I painted bright Italian skies, 

I lauded Persian roses. 
Coined similes for Spanish eyes. 

And jests for Indian noses : 
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, 

Vienna's dread of treason : 
And Laura asked me — where the glass 

Stood, at Madrid, last season. 



I broached whate'er had gone its rounds. 
The week before, of scandal ; 



23 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds. 

And Jane take up her Handel ; 
Why Julia walked upon the heath, 

With the pale moon above her ; 
Where Flora lost her false front teeth. 

And Anne her falser lover ; 
How Lord de B. and JVIrs. L. 

Had crossed the sea together : 
My shuddering partner cried " O del 1 

How could they, — in such weather ?" 

Was she a Blue ? — I put my trust 

In strata, petals, gases ; 
A boudoir-pedant ? I discussed 

The toga and the fasces ; 
A Cockney-Muse ? I mouthed a deal 

Of folly from Endymion; 
A saint ? I praised the pious zeal 

Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; 
A politician ? — it was vain 

To quote the morning paper ; 



24 



MY PARTNER 

The horrid phantoms came again, 
Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour. 

Flat Flattery was my only chance : 

I acted deep devotion, 
Found magic in her every glance, 

Grace in her every motion ; 
I wasted all a stripling's lore. 

Prayer, passion, folly, feeling ; 
And wildly looked upon the floor, 

And w^dly on the ceiling. 
I envied gloves upon her arm 

And shawls upon her shoulder ; 
And, when my worship was most warm. 

She — "never found it colder." 

I don't object to wealth or land ; 

And she will have the giving 
Of an extremely pretty hand, 

Some thousands, and a living. 



25 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

She makes silk purses, broiders stools, 

Sings sweetly, dances finely, 
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, 

And sits a horse divinely. 
But to be linked for life to her! — 

The desperate man who tried it 
Might marry a Barometer 

And hang himself beside it ! 



26 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

V 
PORTRAIT OF A LADY 

IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL 
ACADEMY 

What are you, Lady ? — nought is here 

To tell us of your name or story, 
To claim the gazer's smile or fear. 

To dub you Whig, or damn you Tory; 
It is beyond a poet's skill 

To form the slightest notion, whether 
We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, 

Or look upon one moon together. 

You're very pretty! — all the world 

Are talking of your bright brow's splendour. 
And of your locks, so softly curled. 

And of your hands, so white and slender ; 
Some think you 're blooming in Bengal ; 

Some say you're blowing in the city; 
27 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Some know you 're nobody at all : 
I only feel — you're very pretty. 



But bless my heart! it's very wrong ; 

You 're making all our belles ferocious ; 
Anne "never saw a chin so long;" 

And Laura thinks your dress "atrocious;' 
And Lady Jane, who now and then 

Is taken for the village steeple. 
Is sure you can't be four feet ten, 

And "wonders at the taste of people." 

Soon pass the praises of a face ; 

Swift fades the very best vermillion ; 
Fame rides a most prodigious pace ; 

Oblivion follows on the pillion ; 
And all who in these sultry rooms 

To-day have stared, and pushed, and 
fainted. 
Will soon forget your pearls and plumes, 

As if they never had been painted. 
28 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY 

You'll be forgotten — as old debts 

By persons who are used to borrow ; 
Forgotten — as the sun that sets, 

When shines a new one on the morrow ; 
Forgotten — like the luscious peach 

That blessed the schoolboy last September ; 
Forgotten — like a maiden speech. 

Which all men praise, but none remember. 

Yet, ere you sink into the stream 

That w^helms alike sage, saint, and martyr. 
And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme. 

And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter. 
Here, of the fortunes of your youth. 

My fancy weaves her dim conjectures. 
Which have, perhaps, as much of truth 

As passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures. 

Was 't in the north or in the south 

That summer breezes rocked your cradle ? 

And had you in your baby mouth 
A wooden or a silver ladle ? 
29 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

And was your first unconscious sleep 

By Brownie banned, or blessed by Fairy ? 

And did you wake to laugh or weep ? 

And were you christened Maud or Mary ? 

And was your father called "your grace" ? 

And did he bet at Ascot races ? 
And did he chat at commonplace ? 

And did he fill a score of places ? 
And did your lady-mother's charms 

Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings ? 
Or did she prate about the arms 

Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings ? 

Where were you finished ? tell me where ! 

Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick ? 
Had you the ordinary share 

Of books and backboard, harp and physic ? 
And did they bid you banish pride. 

And mind your Oriental tinting ? 
And did you learn how Dido died. 

And who found out the art of printing ? 
30 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY 

And are you fond of lanes and brooks — 

A votary of the sylvan Muses ? 
Or do you con the little books 

WTiich Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses ? 
Or do you love to knit and sew — 

The fashionable world's Arachne ? 
Or do you canter down the Row 

Upon a very long-tailed hackney ? 

And do you love your brother James ? 

And do you pet his mares and setters ? 
And have your friends romantic names ? 

And do you write them long long letters ? 
And are you — since the world began 

All women are — a little spiteful ? 
And don't you dote on Malibran ? 

And don't you think Tom Moore delightful ? 

I see they've brought you flowers to-day; 

Delicious food for eyes and noses ; 
But carelessly you turn away 

From all the pinks, and all the roses ; 
31 



EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 

Say, is that fond look sent in search 
Of one whose look as fondly answers ? 

And is he, fairest, in the Church ? 
Or is he — ain't he — in the Lancers ? 

And is your love a motley page 

Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow ? 
Are you to wait till you 're of age ? 

Or are you to be his to-morrow ? 
Or do they bid you, in their scorn, 

Your pure and sinless flame to smother ? 
Is he so very meanly born ? 

Or are you married to another ? 

Whate'er you are, at last, adieu ! 

I think it is your bounden duty 
To let the rhymes I coin for you 

Be prized by all who prize your beauty. 
From you I seek nor gold nor fame ; 

From you I fear no cruel strictures ; 
I wish some girls that I could name 

Were half as silent as their pictures ! 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Busy people, great and small, 
Awkward daucers, short and tall. 
Ladies, fighting which shall call, 
Loungers, pertly quizzing all. — Anon. 

This is a night of pleasure ! Care, 
I shake thee from me ! do not dare 
To stir from out thy murky cell, 
Where in their dark recesses dwell 
Thy kindred gnomes, who love to nip 
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip. 
Until beneath their venomed breath 
Life wears the pallid hue of death. 
Avaunt ! I shake thee from me, Care ! 
The gay, the youthful, and the fair. 
From Lodge, and Court, and House, and Hall, 
Are hurrying to the County Ball. 
Avaunt ! I tread on haunted ground ; 
And giddy Pleasure draws around, 
To shield us from thine envious spite, 
Her magic circle ! nought to-night 
33 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Over that guarded barrier flies 
But laughing lips and smiling eyes ; 
My look shall gaze around me free, 
And like my look my line shall be ; 
While fancy leaps in every vein, 
While love is life, and thought is pain, 
I will not rule that look and line 
By any word or will of thine. 

The Moon hath risen. Still and pale 
Thou movest in thy silver veil. 
Queen of the night ! the filmy shroud 
Of many a mild transparent cloud 
Hides, yet adorns thee ; meet disguise 
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. 
Full many a maid hath loved to gaze 
Upon thy melancholy rays ; 
And many a fond despairing youth 
Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth ; 
And many a luckless rhyming wight 
Hath looked upon thy tender light. 
And spilt his precious ink upon it, 
34 



THE COUNTY BALL 

In ode, or elegy, or sonnet. 
Alas ! at this inspiring hour, 
I feel not, I, thy boasted power, 
Nor seek to gain thine approbation 
By vow, or prayer, or invocation ; 
I ask not what the vapours are 
That veil thee like a white cymar, 
Nor do I care a single straw 
For all the stars I ever saw ! 
I fly from thee, I fly from these, 
To bow to earthly goddesses. 
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine. 
As fair, but not so cold, as thine. 

But this is foolish ! Stars and Moon, 
You look quite beautiful in June ; 
But when a bard sits down to sing, 
Your beauty is a dangerous thing ; 
To muse upon your placid beam 
One wanders sadly from one's theme. 
And when weak poets go astray, 
"The stars are more in fault than they." 
35 



THE COUNTY BALL 

The moon is charming; so, perhaps. 
Are pretty maidens in mob-caps ; 
But, when a ball is in the case, 
They 're both a little out of place. 

I love a ball ! there 's such an air 
Of magic in the lustres' glare. 
And such a spell of witchery 
In all I hear and all I see, 
That I can read in every dance 
Some relic sweet of old romance : 
As fancy wills I laugh and smile, 
And talk such nonsense all the while 
That when Dame Reason rules again, 
And morning cools my heated brain, 
Reality itself doth seem 
Nought but the pageant of a dream ; 
In raptures deep I gaze, as now, 
On smiling lip and tranquil brow, 
While merry voices echo round. 
And music's most inviting sound 
Swells on mine ear ; the glances fly, 
36 



THE COUNTY BALL 

And love and folly flutter high, 
And many a fair romantic cheek, 
Reddened with pleasure or with pique, 
Glows with a sentimental flush 
That seems a bright unfading blush ; 
And slender arms before my face 
Are rounded with a statue's grace ; 
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet. 
Swifter than lightning, part and meet ; 
Frowns come and go ; white hands are pressed. 
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed, 
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright, 
And tongues are free, and hearts are light. 

Sometimes upon the crowd I look, 
Secure in some sequestered nook ; 
And while from thence I look and listen. 
Though ladies' eyes so gaily ghsten, 
Though ladies' locks so lightly float, 
Though music pours her mellowed note, 
Some little spite will oft intrude 
Upon my merry solitude. 
37 



THE COUNTY BALL 

By turns the ever-varpng scene 
Awakes within me mirth and spleen ; 
By turns the gay and vain appear; 
By turns I love to smile and sneer, 
Mixing my malice with my glee, 
Good humour with misanthropy; 
And while my raptured eyes adore 
Half the bright forms that flit before, 
I notice with a little laugh 
The follies of the other half. 
That little laugh will oft call down. 
From matron sage, rebuke and frown; 
Little, in truth, for these I care : 
By Momus and his mirth I swear, — 
For all the dishes Rowley tastes, 
For all the paper Courtenay wastes, 
For all the punch his subjects quaff, 
I would not change that little laugh ! ^ 
Shall I not laugh, when every fool 
Comes hither for my ridicule, — 

1 Hoc ego opertutn, 
Hoc ridere meum, tarn nil, nullS tibi vendo 
Iliade. Pees. 

38 



THE COUNTY BALL 

When ev'ry face that flits to-night 
In long review before my sight 
Shows off, unasked, its airs and graces. 
Unconscious of the mirth it raises ? 

Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes 

By ci\^l looks and ci\^l lies. 

Skilled from the search of men to hide 

His narrow bosom's inward pride. 

And charm the blockheads he beguiles 

By uniformity of smiles, 

The County Member, bright Sir Paul, 

Is Primo Buffo at the Ball. 

Since first he longed to represent 
His fellow-men in Parliament, 
Courted the cobblers and their spouses, 
And sought his honours in mud houses, 
Full thirty springs have come and fled ; 
And though from off his shining head 
The twin destroyers. Time and Care, 
Begin to pluck its fading hair, 
39 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Yet where it grew, and where it grows, 
Lie powder's never- varying snows. 
And hide the havoc years have made 
In kind monotony of shade. 

i 

Sir Paul is young in all but years ; 
And, when his courteous face appears. 
The maiden wall-flowers of the room 
Admire the freshness of his bloom. 
Hint that his face has made him vain. 
And vow "he grows a boy again," 
And giddy girls of gay fifteen 
Mimic his manner and his mien ; 
And when the supple politician 
Bestows his bow of recognition, 
Or forces on th' averted ear 
The flattery it affects to fear. 
They look, and laugh behind the fan, 
And dub Sir Paul "the young old man. 

Look ! as he paces round, he greets 
With nod and simper all he meets : — 
40 



THE COUNTY BALL 

"Ah, ha! your Lordship! is it you ? 
Still slave to beauty and beaux yeux ? 
Well, well ! and how's the gout, my Lord ? 
My dear Sir Charles, upon my word, 
Vair de Paris, since last I knew you. 
Has been Medea's cauldron to you. — 
William, my boy ! how fast you grow ! 
Yours is a light fantastic toe. 
Winged with the wings of Mercury ! 
I was a scholar once, you see ! 
And how 's the mare you used to ride ? 
And who 's the Hebe by your side ? — 
Doctor ! I thought I heard you sneeze ? 
How is my dear Hippocrates ? 
What have you done for old John Oates, 
The gouty merchant with five votes ? 
W^hat, dead ? well, well! no fault of yours! 
There is no drug that always cures ! 
Ah doctor ! I begin to break ; 
And I 'm glad of it, for your sake ! " 



41 



THE COUNTY BALL 

As thus the spruce M. P. runs on, 
Some quiet dame, who dotes upon 
His speeches, buckles, and grimace, 
Grows very eloquent in praise. 
"How can they say Sir Paul is proud ? 
I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd. 
There's not a man that bows so low; 
His words come out so soft and slow ; 
And when he begged me keep my seat. 
He looked so civil and so sweet. " 
"Ma'am," says her spouse, in harsher tone, 
" He only wants to keep his own." 
Her Ladyship is in a huff ; 
And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff, 
Rings the alarm in t'other ear : 
" Lord ! now Papa, you 're too severe ; 
Where in the country will you see 
Manners so taking and so free ? " 
" His manners free ? I only know 
Our votes have made his letters so! " — 
"And then he talks with so much ease, 
And then he gives such promises ! " 
42 



THE COUNTY BALL 

"Gives promises! and well he may, 
You know they 're all he gives away!" 
"How folks misrepresent Sir Paul ! " 
" 'T is he misrepresents us all ! " 
"How very stale! — but you'll confess 
He has a charming taste in dress, 
And uses such delightful scent ! 
And when he pays a compliment" — 
"Eh! and what then, my pretty pet! 
What then ? — he never pays a debt! " 

Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks 
Of politesse and politics ; 
Long hath he learned to wear a mien 
So still, so open, so serene, 
That strangers in those features grave 
Would strive in vain to read a knave. 
Alas ! it is believed by all 
There is more "Sir" than "Saint" in Paul; 
He knows the value of a place ; 
Can give a promise with a grace ; 
Is quite an adept at excuse ; 
43 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Sees when a vote will be of use ; 
And, if the Independents flinch, 
Can help his Lordship at a pinch. 
Acutely doth he read the fate 
Of deep intrigues and plans of state, 
And if perchance some powdered peer 
Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear. 
Foretells, without a shade of doubt. 
The comings in and goings out. 
When placemen of distinguished note 
Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote, 
Confound the Papist and the Turk, 
Or murder Sheridan and Burke, 
Or make a riddle of the laws. 
Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause : 
And when in words of equal size 
Some Oppositionist replies, 
And talks of taxes and starvation 
And Catholic Emancipation, 
The Knight, in indolent repose. 
Looks only to the Ayes and Noes. 



44 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Let youth say " Grand ! " — Sir Paul says 

"Stuff!" 
Let youth take fire ! — Sir Paul takes snuff. 

Methinks amid the crowded room 
I see one countenance of gloom ; 
Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique ? 
Whence is the paleness of his cheek ? 
And whence the wrathful eye, that now 
Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow, 
And now again on earth is bent, 
'Tw4xt anger and embarrassment ? 
Is he poetical, or sad ? — 
Really — or fashionably — mad? 
Are his young spirits colder grown 
At Ellen's — or the Muse's frown ? 
He did not love in other days 
To w^ear the suUens on his face 
WTien merry sights and sounds were near ; 
Nor on his unregarding ear 
Unheeded thus was wont to fall 
The music of the County Ball. 
45 



THE COUNTY BALL 

I pity all whom Fate unites 
To vulgar belles on gala nights ; 
But chiefly him who haply sees 
The day-star of his destinies — 
The Beauty of his fondest dreaming — 
Sitting in solitude, and seeming 
To lift her dark capricious eye 
Beneath its fringe reproachingly. 
Alas ! my luckless friend is tied 
To the fair hoyden by his side, 
Who opens, without law or rule, 
The treasures of the boarding-school ; 
And she is prating learnedly 
Of logic and of chemistry. 
Describing chart and definition 
With geographical precision, 
Culling her words, as bid by chance. 
From England, Italy, or France, 
Until, like many a clever dunce, 
She murders all the three at once. 
Sometimes she mixes by the ounce 
Discussions deep on frill and flounce ; 
46 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Points out the stains, that stick hke burs 
To ladies' gowns — or characters; 
Talks of the fiddles and the weather, 
Of Laura's wreath, and Fannia's feather ; 
All which obedient Edmund hears 
With passive look, and open ears, 
And understands about as much 
As if the lady spoke in Dutch ; 
Until, in indignation high, 
She finds the youth makes no reply, 
And thinks he 's grown as deaf a stock 
As Dido — or Marpesian rock.^ 

Ellen, the lady of his love, 

Is doomed the like distress to prove. 

Chained to a Captain of the wars. 

Like Venus by the side of Mars. 

Hark ! Valour talks of conquered towns ; 

See ! silent Beauty frets and frowns ; 

The man of fights is wondering now 

1 Dido . . . non magis . . . sermoue movetur, 
Quam si dura silex, aut stet Marpesia cautes. Vieo. 

47 



THE COUNTY BALL 

That girls wonH speak when dandies bow ; 

And Ellen finds, with much surprise, 

That beaux will speak when belles despise. 

"Ma'am," says the Captain, "I protest 

I come to ye a stranger guest, 

Fresh from the dismal, dangerous land 

Where men are blinded by the sand. 

Where undiscovered things are hid 

In owl-frequented pyramid, 

And mummies with their silent looks 

Appear like memorandum books 

Giving a hint of death, for fear 

We men should be too happy here. 

But if upon my native land 

Fair ones as still as mummies stand. 

By Jove, — I had as lief be there ! " — 

(The Lady looks — "I wish you were.") 

"I fear I'm very dull to-night" — 

(The Lady looks — "You're very right.") 

" But if one smile — one cheering ray" — 

(The Lady looks another way — ) 



48 



THE COUNTY BALL 

"Alas ! from some more happy man " — 
(The Lady stoops and bites her fan.) 
"Flattery, perhaps, is not a crime," — 
(The Lady dances out of time ;) 
"Perhaps e'en now within your heart, 
Cruel ! you wish us leagues apart, 
And banish me from Beauty's presence ! " 
The Lady bows in acquiescence, 
With steady brow, and studied face. 
As if she thought, in such a case, 
A contradiction to her Beau 
Neither polite — nor a propos. 

Una wed by scandal or by sneer. 
Is Reuben Nott the blunderer here ? 
What ! is he willing to expose 
His erring brain to friends and foes ? 
And does he venturously dare, 
'Midst grinning fop and spiteful fair. 
In spite of all their ancient slips. 
To open those unhappy lips ? 



49 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Poor Reuben ! o'er his infant head 
Her choicest bounties Nature shed ; 
She gave him talent, humour, sense, 
A decent face, and competence. 
And then, to mar the beauteous plan. 
She bade him be — an abrent man. 
Ever offending, ever fretting, 
Ever explaining and forgetting. 
He blunders on from day to day. 
And drives his nearest friends away. 
Do farces meet with flat damnation ? 
He's ready with "congratulation." 
Are friends in office not quite pure ? — 
He "owns he hates a sinecure." 

Was Major in foreign strife 

Not over prodigal of life ? — 
He talks about "the coward's grave:" 
And "who so base as be a slave.?" 
Is some fair cousin made a wife. 
In the full autumn of her life ? — 
He 's sure to shock the youthful bride 
With "forty years, come Whitsuntide!' 
50 



THE COUNTY BALL 

He wanders round. I '11 act the spy 

Upon his fatal courtesy, 

WTiich always gives the greatest pain. 

Where most it strives to entertain : — 

"Edward, my boy! an age has passed 

Methinks, since Reuben saw you last; 

How fares the Abbey ? and the rooks ? 

Your tenants ? and your sister's looks ? 

Lovely and fascinating still, 

With lips that wound and eyes that kill ? 

When last I saw her dangerous face. 

There was a lover in the case — 

A pretty pair of epaulettes ! — 

But then, there were some ugly debts ! 

A match ? — nay ! why so gloomy, boy ? 

Upon my life I wish 'em joy ! " 

With arms enfolded o'er his breast. 
And fingers clenched, and lips compressed, 
And eye, whose every glance appears 
To speak a threat in Reuben's ears, 
That youth hath heard ; 't is brief and stern, 
51 



THE COUNTY BALL 

The answer that he deigns return ; 
Then silent on his homeward way, 
Like Ossian's ghosts, he strides away. 

Astonished at his indignation, 

Reuben breaks out in exclamation. 

"Edward! I mean — I really meant — 

Upon my word! — a compliment; 

You look so stern! — nay, why is this ? 

Angry because I flattered Miss ? 

What ! gone ? — the deuce is in the man ! 

Explain, Sir Robert, if you can." — 

"Eh! what? perhaps you have n't heard, — 

Excuse my laughing — how absurd ! 

A slight faux pas! — a trifle merely! 

Ha! ha! — egad, you touched him nearly!" 

All blunderers, when they chance to make 
In colloquy some small mistake. 
Make haste to make a hundred more 
To mend the one they made before. 
'T is thus with Reuben ; through the throng 
52 



THE COUNTY BALL 

With hurried steps he hastes along ; 
Thins, like a pest, the crowded seats. 
And runs amuck at all he meets, 
Rich in his unintended satire, 
And killing where he meant to flatter. 
He makes a College Fellow wild 
By asking for his wife and child ; 
Puts a haught Blue in a^^ul passion 
By disquisitions on the fashion ; 
Refers a knotty case in whist 
To Morley the philanthropist ; 
Quotes to a sportsman from St. Luke ; 
Bawls out plain "Bobby" to a Duke; 
And while a barrister invites 
Our notice to the Bill of Rights, 
And fat Sir John begins to launch 
Into the praises of a haunch, 
He bids the man of quibbles pause 
By eulogising "Spartan Laws," 
And makes the epicure quite wroth 
By eulogising "Spartan broth." 
Error on error grows and swells; — 
53 



THE COUNTY BALL 

For, as a certain proverb tells, 

"When once a man has lost his way," — 

But you have read it, — or you may. 

Girt with a crowd of listening Graces, 
With expectation on their faces. 
Chattering, and looking all the while 
As if he strove to hide a smile 
That fain would burst Decorum's bands, 
Alfred Duval, the hoaxer, stands. 
Alfred ! the eldest born of IVIirth ; 
There is not on this nether earth 
So light a spirit, nor a soul 
So little used to all control. 
Frolic and fun and jest and glee 
Burst round him unremittingly, 
And in the glances of his eyes 
Ever his heart's good humour flies, 
Mild as the breezes of the South ; 
And while from many a wiser mouth 
We drink the fruits of education. 
The solid Port of conversation, 
54 



THE COUNTY BALL 

From Alfred's lips we seem to drain 
A ceaseless flow of bright Champagne. 
In various shapes his wit is found ; 
But most it loves to send around 
O'er half the town, on Rumour's gale, 
Some marvellously fashioned tale, 
And cheat the unsuspecting ear 
With groundless hope, or groundless fear. 
To speak in civil words, his bent 
Lies sadly to — embellishment. 
"Sir," says Morality, "you know 
You should n't flatter Falsehood so : 
The nurse that rocked you in your crib 
Taught you to loathe and scorn a fib ; 
And Shakespeare warns you of the evil, 
Saying — 'Tell truth, and shame the devil!' 
I like, as well as you, the glances 
Where gay good humour brightly dances ; 
But when a man tells horrid lies, — 
You should n't talk about his eyes." 
Madam ! you '11 think it rather odd, 
That, while I bow me to the rod, 
55 



THE COUNTY BALL 

And make no shadow of defence, 

I still persist in my offence : 

And great and small may join to blame 

The echo of the hoaxer's fame ; 

But, be it known to great and small, — 

I can't write sermons at a ball. 

'T is Alfred fills the public prints 
With all the sly ingenious hints 
That fly about, begirt with cares, 
And terrify the Bulls and Bears. 
Unrivalled statesman ! war and peace 
He makes and breaks with perfect ease ; 
Skilful to crown and to depose. 
He sets up kings, and overthrows ; 
As if apprenticed to the work, 
He ties the bowstring round the Turk, 
Or makes the Algerine devout. 
Or plagues his Holiness with gout, 
Or drives the Spaniard from Madrid 
As quick as Bonaparte did. 
Sometimes at home his plots he lays, 
56 



THE COUNTY BALL 

And wildly still his fancy plays ; 

He pulls the Speaker from the chair, 

Murders the Sheriffs, or the Mayor, 

Or drags a Bishop through the mire, 

Or sets the theatres on fire. 

Or brings the weavers to subjection, 

Or prates of mobs and insurrection. 

One dash of his creative pen 

Can raise a hundred thousand men : 

They march ! he wills, and myriads fall ; 

One dash annihilates them all ! 

And now, amid that female rout, 
What scandal doth he buzz about ? 
What grand affair or mighty name 
Entrusts he to the gossip Fame ? 
Unchecked, unstayed, he hurries on 
With wondrous stories of the Ton; 
Describes how London ladies lose 
Their heads in helmets — like the Blues, 
And how the highest circles meet 
To dance with pattens on their feet ! 
57 



THE COUNTY BALL 

And all the while he tells his he 
With such a solemn gravity, 
That many a Miss parades the room 
Dreaming about a casque and plume, 
And vows it grievously must tire one 
To waltz upon a pump of iron. 

Jacques, the Cantab ! I see him brood, 
Wrapt in his mental solitude. 
On thoughts that lie too deep, I wis. 
For such a scene and hour as this. 
Now shall the rivers freeze in May, 
Coquettes be silent at the play; 
Old men shall dine without a story. 
And mobs be civil to a Tory ! 
All miracles shall well befall, 
When Youth is thoughtful at a ball. 

From thoughts that grieve, and words that vex, 
And names invented to perplex ; 
From latent findings, never found, 
58 



THE COUNTY BALL 

And mystic figures, square and round ; 
Shapes, from whose labyrinthine toil 
A Daedalus might well recoil. 
He steals one night — one single night — 
And gives its moments to delight. 
Yet still upon his struggling soul 
The muddy wave of Cam will roll, 
And all the monsters grim, that float 
Upon that dark and murky moat. 
Come jabbering round him, — dark equation, 
Subtle distinction, disputation ; 
Notion, idea, mystic schism, 
Assumption, proof, and syllogism. 
And many an old and awful name 
Of optic or mechanic fame. 
Look ! in the van stern Euclid shows 
The Asses'-Bridge upon his nose; 
Bacon comes forward, sage austere, 
And Locke and Paley both are there; 
And Newton, with a spiteful hiss, 
Points to his '*Z)e Principiis." 
Yet often with his magic wand 
59 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Doth Mirth dispel that hideous band ; 
And then in strange confusion lost 
The mind of Jacques is tempest-tossed : 
By turns around it come and flee 
The dulce and the utile ; 
By turns, as Thought or Pleasure wills, 
Quadratics struggle with quadrilles ; 
And figures sour and figures sweet, 
Of problems — and of dances — meet ; 
Bisections fight with "down the middle "s, 
And chords of arcs with chords of fiddles ; 
Vain are the poor musician's graces ; 
His bass gives way to given bases — 
His studied trill to shapely trine — 
His mellowed shake to puzzling sine : 
Each forming set recalls a vision 
Of some enchanting proposition, 
And merry '^ Chassez-croises huiV^ 
Is little more than Q. E. D. 
Ah Stoic youth ! before his eye 
Bright beauties walk unheeded by; 
And, while his distant fancy strays 
60 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Remote through Algebraic maze, 
He sees in whatsoe'er he views 
The very object he pursues ; 
And fairest forms, from heel to head, 
Seem crooked as his x and z. 
Peace to the man of marble ! — 

Hush! 

Whence is the universal rush ? 
Why doth confusion thus aflFright 
The peaceful order of the night. 
Thwart the musicians in their task, 
And check the schoolboy's pas de basque ? 

The Lady Clare hath lost a comb ! — 
If old Queen Bess from out her tomb 
Had burst, with royal indignation. 
Upon our scandalous flirtation, 
Darted a glance immensely chilling 
Upon our waltzing and quadrilling, 
Flown at the fiddlers in a pet. 
And bade them play her minuet ; 
61 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Her stately step and angry eye, 
Her waist so low, her neck so high. 
Her habit of inspiring fear. 
Her knack of boxing on the ear. 
Could ne'er have made the people stare 
Like the lost comb of Lady Clare ! 
The tresses it was wont to bind 
Joy in their freedom ! unconfined 
They float around her, and bedeck 
The marble whiteness of her neck 
With veil of more resplendent hue 
Than ever Aphrodite threw 
Around her, when unseen she trod 
Before the sight of man or god. 
Look, how a blush of burning red 
O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread 
Glances like lightning ! and aside 
The Lady Clare hath turned her head, 
As if she strove in vain to hide 
That countenance of modest pride. 
Whose colour many an envying fair 
Would give a monarch's crown to wear. 
62 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue : 
In woman's smile, oh! raptures throng; 
And woman's tears compassion move, — 
But, oh ! 't is woman's blush we love ! 

Now gallantry is busy round : 

All eyes are bent upon the ground ; 

And dancers leave the cheerful measure 

To seek the Lady's missing treasure. 

Meanwhile, some charitable Miss, 

Quite ignorant what envy is, 

Sends slowly forth her censures grave. 

"How oddly beauties will behave! 

Oh ! quite an accident ! — last year 

I think she sprained her ankle here ; 

And then there were such sudden halts. 

And such a bringing out of salts." — 

"You think her vain.?" — "Oh gracious, no! 

She has a charming foot, you know ; 

And it 's so pretty to be lame ; — 

I don't impute the slightest blame, — 

Only, that very careless braid ! — 



THE COUNTY BALL 

The fault is with the waiting-maid : 
I merely mean, since Lady Clare 
Was flattered so about her hair, 
Her comb is always dropping out — 
Oh ! quite an accident ! — no doubt ! " 

The sun hath risen o'er the deep, 
And fathers, more than half asleep, 
Begin to shake the drowsy head. 
And hint — "It's time to be in bed." 
Then comes chagrin on faces fair ; 
Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer ; 
And then the warning watch is shown, 
And answers in a harsher tone 
Reply to look of lamentation. 
And argument, and supplication : 
In vain sweet voices tell their grief, 
In speeches long, for respite brief ; 
Bootless are all their " Lord ! "s and " La ! "s, 
Their "Pray, Papa!"s and "Do, Papa!"s; 
"Ladies," quoth Gout, "I love my rest; 
The carriage waits! — eundum est." 
64 



THE COUNTY BALL 

This is the hour for parting bow. 
This is the hour for secret vow ; 
For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak. 
Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke : 
This is the hour when ladies bright 
Relate the adventures of the night, 
And fly by turns from truth to fiction, 
From retrospection to prediction : 
They regulate mth unbought bounty 
The destinies of half the county ; 
With gipsy talent they foretell 
How Miss Duquesne w^ll marry well. 
And how 't is certain that the Squire 
Will be more stupid than his sire, 
And how the girl they cried up so. 
Only two little months ago. 
Falls off already, and will be 
Really quite plain at twenty-three. 

Now Scandal hovers, laughing, o'er them. 
While pass in long review before them, 
"The lady that my lord admires" — 
65 



THE COUNTY BALL 

"The gentleman that moves on wires" — 
The youth " with such a frightful frown ! " 
And " that extraordinary gown ! " 
Now characters are much debated, 
And witty speeches are narrated ; 
And Criticism delights to dwell 
On conquests won by many a belle, 
On compliments that ne'er were paid. 
On offers that were never made. 
Refusals — Lord knows when refused. 
Deductions — Lord knows how deduced ; 
Alas ! how sweetly scandal falls 
From lips of beauties — after balls! - 

The music stops — the lights expire — 
The dance is o'er — the crowds retire, 
And all those smiling cheeks have flown ! 
Away! — the Rhymer is alone. 
Thou too, the fairest and the best, 
Hast fleeted from him with the rest; 
Thy name he will not, love ! unite 
To the rude strain he pours to-night; 
66 



THE COUNTY BALL 

Yet often hath he turned away 
Amidst his harsh and wandering lay. 
And often hath his earnest eye 
Looked into thine delightedly, 
And often hath his listening ear — 

But thou art gone ! — what doth he here ? 



67 



TO JULIO 

ON HIS COMING OF AGE 

Julio, while Fancy's tints adorn 
The first bright beam of manhood's morn, 
The cares of boyhood fleet away 
Like clouds before the face of day ; 
And see, before your ravished eyes 
New hopes appear, new duties rise, 
Restraint has left his iron throne, 
And Freedom smiles on twenty-one. 

Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew 
When careless boyhood deemed them true, 
With whom you wiled the lazy hours 
Round fond Etona's classic towers, 
Or strayed beside the learned mud 
Of ancient Cam's meandering flood ; 
The follies that in them you \iew 
Shall be a source of good to you. 
68 



TO JULIO 

With mincing gait and foreign air 
Sir Philip strays through park and square, 
Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess, 
In all the studied ease of dress ; 
Aptly the man-ling's tongue, I deem. 
Can argue on a lofty theme, — 
Which damsel hath the merrier eye. 
Which fop the better-fancied tie, 
WTiich perfume hath the sweetest savour, 
W^hich soup the more in\iting flavour ; 
And Fashion, at Sir Philip's call, 
Ordains the collar's rise and fall 
And shifts the Brummel's varpng hue 
From blue to brown, from brown to blue. 
And hence the motley crowd, whoe'er 
Bear Fashion's badge — or wish to bear. 
From Hockley-hole to Rotten-row, 
Unite to dub Sir Philip — beau. 

And, such is Fashion's empty fame. 
Squire Robert loathes the very name. 
The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze, 
69 



TO JULIO 

The peasants gape in still amaze ; 
The field unploughed, the ox unyoked, 
The farmer's mouth with pudding choked, 
The sexton's vest of decent brown. 
The village maiden's Sunday gown. 
In joyful union seem to say — 
"Squire Robert is of age to-day." 
The bumpkins hurry to the Bell, 
And clam'rous tongues in riot swell ; 
Anger is hot — and so is liquor; 
They drink confusion to the vicar ; 
And shout and song from lad and lass, 
And broken heads, and broken glass. 
In concert horrible, declare 
Their loyal rev'rence for the heir. 

Right justly may the youthful squire 
These transports in his slaves inspire ; 
At every fireside through the place 
He 's welcome as the curate's grace ; 
He tells his story, cracks his joke. 
And drinks his ale "like other folk;" 
70 



TO JULIO 

Fearless he risks that cranium thick 
At cudgelling and singlestick ; 
And then his stud ! — Why, far and wide, 
It is the country's chiefest pride ! 
Ah ! had his steed no firmer brains ' 
Than the mere thing that holds the reins. 
Grief soon would bid the beer to run, 
Because the squire's mad race was done. 
Not less than now it froths away, 
Because "the squire 's of age to-day." 

Far different pomp inspired of old 
The youthful Roman's bosom bold, 
Soon as a father's honoured hand 
Gave to his grasp the casque and brand. 
And off the light praetexta threw. 
And from his neck the bulla drew, 
Bade him the toga's foldings scan, 
And glory in the name of Man ; 
Far different pomp lit ardour high 
In the young German's eager eye. 
When, bending o'er his offspring's head, 
71 



TO JULIO 

An aged sire, half weeping, said — 
"Thy duty to thy father done, 
Go forth, and be thy country's son ! " 
Heav'ns ! how his bosom burned to dare 
The grim dehght of manhood's war, 
And brandish in no mimic field 
His beaming lance and osier shield ! 
How his young bosom longed to claim. 
In war's wide tumult, manhood's name. 
And write it, 'midst the battle's foam. 
In the best blood of trembling Rome ! 

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy. 
That nerved to arms the German boy; 
A flame as ardent, more refined. 
Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind ; 
But yet I 'd rather see thee smile 
Grimly on war's embattled file, — 
I 'd rather see thee wield in strife 
The German butcher's reckless knife, 
Thinking thy claims to manhood grow 
From each pale corse that bleeds below, 
72 



TO JULIO 

I 'd rather view thee thus, than see 
A modern blockhead rise in thee. 



Is it a study for a peer 
To breathe soft vows in lady's ear ? 
To choose a coat — or leap a gate ? 
To win an heiress — or a plate ? 

Far nobler studies shall be thine, — 
So friendship and the Muse di\dne : 
It shall be thine, in danger's hour, 
To guide the helm of British power ; 
And 'midst thy country's laurelled crown 
To mix a garland all thine own. 

Julio, from this auspicious day, 
New honours gild thine onward way; 
In thee posterity shall view 
A heart to faith and feeling true, 
And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend 
For virtue's and the poor man's friend ! 
73 



TO JULIA 

PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN 

Julia, while London's fancied bliss 

Bids you despise a life like this ; 

While Chiswick and its joys you leave, 

For hopes that flatter to deceive ; 

You will not scornfully refuse, 

(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,) 

To look upon my line, and hear 

What friendship sends to Beauty's ear. 

Four miles from town, a neat abode 
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road ; 
A paling, cleaned with constant care. 
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre. 
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl 
Five inches up the whitened wall. 
The open window, thickly set 
With myrtle and with mignonette, 
74 



TO JULIA 

Behind whose cultivated row 
A brace of globes peep out for show, 
The avenue, the burnished plate 
That decks the would-be rustic gate. 
Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, - 
"Lvce's Academy for Belles." 

'T was here, in earlier, happier days. 
Retired from pleasure's weary maze. 
You found, unknown to care or pain. 
The peace you will not find again. 
Here friendships, far too fond to last, 
A bright but fleeting radiance cast 
On every sport that mirth dcAised, 
And every scene that childhood prized. 
And every bliss that bids you yet 
Recall those moments w^th regret. 

Those friends have mingled in the strife 
That fills the busy scene of life. 
And pride and folly, cares and fears. 
Look dark upon their future years ; 
But by their wrecks may Julia learn 



TO JULIA 

Whither her fragile bark to turn. 
And o'er the troubled sea of fate 
Avoid the rocks they found too late. 

You know Camilla : o'er the plain 
She guides the fiery hunter's rein ; 
First in the chase she sounds the horn, 
Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, 
That hardly deigned to bend its head 
Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. 
With Bob the Squire, her polished lover, 
She wields the gun, or beats the cover ; 
And then her steed! — why! every clown 
Tells how she rubs Smolensko down. 
And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, 
WTiile wondering hostlers stand aloof. 

At night, before the Christmas fire. 
She plays backgammon with the squire ; 
Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor, 
Mimics her father, and the vicar ; 
Swears at the grooms without a blush ; 
76 



TO JULIA 

Dips in her ale the captured brush ; 

Until, — her father duly tired — 

The parson's wig as duly fired — 

The dogs all still — the squire asleep. 

And dreaming of his usual leap, — 

She leaves the dregs of white and red. 

And lounges languidly to bed ; 

And still, in nightly visions borne, 

She gallops o'er the rustic's corn ; 

Still wields the lash — still shakes the box. 

Dreaming of "sixes" — and the fox. 

And this is bliss ! — the story runs, 

Camilla never wept — save once: 

Yes ! once indeed Camilla cried — 

'T was when her dear Blue-stockings died. 

Pretty Cordelia thinks she 's ill : 
She seeks her medicine at quadrille; — 
With hope and fear and envy sick 
She gazes on the dubious trick, 
As if eternity were laid 
77 



TO JULIA 

Upon a diamond, or a spade. 
And I have seen a transient pique 
Wake o'er that soft and girlish cheek 
A chilly and a feverish hue, 
Blighting the soil where beauty grew, 
And bidding hate and malice rove 
In eyes that ought to beam with love. 

Turn we to Fannia : she was fair 
As the soft fleeting forms of air 
Shaped by the fancy, — fitting theme 
For youthful bard's enamoured dream. 
The neck, on whose transparent glow 
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow. 
The eye that swims in liquid fire. 
The brow that frowns in playful ire. 
All these, when Fannia's early youth 
Looked lovely in its native truth. 
Diffused a bright unconscious grace. 
Almost divine, o'er form and face. 

Her lip has lost its fragrant dew, 
Her cheek has lost its rosy hue, 
78 



TO JULIA 

Her eye the glad enlivening rays 

That glittered there in happier days. 

Her heart the ignorance of woe 

Which Fashion's votaries may not know. 

The city's smoke — the noxious air — 

The constant crowd — the torch's glare — 

The morning sleep — the noonday call — 

The late repast — the midnight ball. 

Bid faith and beauty die, and taint 

Her heart with fraud, her face w^th paint. 

And what the boon, the prize enjoyed. 
For fame defaced, and peace destroyed .'' 
Why ask we this ? with conscious grace 
She criticises silk and lace ; 
Queen of the modes, she reigns alike 
O'er sarsenet, bobbin, net, Vandyke, 
O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls, 
Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls; 
Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs. 
Small-talk and scandal, love and lies. 
Circled by beaux behold her sit, 
79 



TO JULIA 

While dandies tremble at her wit ; 

The captain hates "a woman's gab; " 

"A devil!" cries the shy Cantab; 

The young Etonian strives to fly 

The glance of her sarcastic eye, 

For well he knows she looks him o'er, 

To stamp him "buck," or dub him "bore." 

Such is her life — a life of waste, 
A life of wretchedness — and taste; 
And all the glory Fannia boasts, 
And all the price that glory costs, 
At once are reckoned up, in one — 
One word of bliss and folly — Ton. 

Not these the thoughts that could perplex 
The fancies of our fickle sex. 
When England's favourite, good Queen Bess, 
Was queen alike o'er war and dress. 
Then ladies gay played chesse — and ballads, 
And learnt to dress their hair — and salads; 
80 



TO JULIA 

Sweets, and sweet looks, were studied then, 
And both were pleasing to the men ; 
For cookery was allied to taste, 
And girls were taught to blush — and baste. 
Dishes were bright, — and so were eyes. 
And lords made love, — and ladies, pies. 
Then Valour won the wavering field 
By dint of hauberk and of shield, 
And Beauty won the wavering heart 
By dint of pickle and of tart : 
The minuet was the favourite dance ; 
Girls loved the needle, boys the lance ; 
And Cupid took his constant post 
At dinner by the boiled and roast. 
Or secretly was wont to lurk 
In tournament or needlework. 
Oh ! 't was a reign of all delights. 
Of hot sirloins — and hot sir knights; 
Feasting and fighting, hand in hand, 
Fattened and glorified the land ; 
And noble chiefs had noble cheer. 
And knights grew strong upon strong beer ; 
81 



TO JULIA 

Honour and oxen both were nourished, 
And chivalry — and pudding — flourished. 

I 'd rather see that magic face, 
That look of love, that form of grace. 
Circled by whalebone and by ruffs, 
Intent on puddings and on puffs, — 
I 'd rather \iew thee thus, than see 
A Fashionable rise in thee. 
If life is dark, 't is not for you 
(If partial friendship's voice is true) 
To cure its griefs and drown its cares 
By leaping gates and murd'ring hares, 
Nor to confine that feeling soul 
To winning lovers — or the vole. 

If these, and such pursuits, are thine, 
Julia ! thou art no friend of mine ! 
I love plain dress, I eat plain joints, 
I cannot play ten-guinea points ; 
I make no study of a pin. 
And hate a female whipper-in ! 
82 



MARRIAGE 

What, what is Marriage ? Harris, Priscian, 

Assist me with a definition. — 

" Oh ! " cries a charming silly fool. 

Emerging from her boarding-school — 

"Marriage is — love without disguises, 

It is a — something that arises 

From raptures and from stolen glances. 

To be the end of all romances ; 

Vows — quarrels — moonshine — babes — but 

hush! 
I must n't have you see me blush." 

"Pshaw!" says a modern modish wife, 
"Marriage is splendour, fashion, life; 
A house in town, and villa shady. 
Balls, diamond bracelets, and ' my lady ; ' 
Then for finale, angry words, 
* Some people 's — 'obstinate 's — ' absurd ! 's 
And peevish hearts, and silly heads. 
And oaths, and 'bete's, and separate beds." 
83 



MARRIAGE 

An aged bachelor, whose life 

Has just been sweetened with a wife, 

Tells out the latent grievance thus : 

" Marriage is — odd ! for one of us 

'T is worse a mile than rope or tree, 

Hemlock, or sword, or slavery; 

An end at once to all our ways. 

Dismission to the one-horse chaise -, 

Adieu to Sunday can, and pig, 

Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig ; 

Our friends turn out — our wife's are clapt in; 

'T is 'exit Crony,' — 'enter Captain.' 

Then hurry in a thousand thorns, — 

Quarrels, and compliments, — and horns. 

This is the yoke, and I must wear it ; 

Marriage is — hell, or something near it!" 

"Why, marriage," says an exquisite. 
Sick from the supper of last night, 
"Marriage is — after one by me! 
I promised Tom to ride at three. — 
Marriage is — 'gad ! I 'm rather late ; 
84 



MARRIAGE 

La Fleur! — my stays! and chocolate! — 
Marriage is — really, though, 'twas hard 
To lose a thousand on a card ; 
Sink the old Duchess! — three revokes! 
'Gad ! I must fell the Abbey oaks : 
Mary has lost a thousand more ! — 
Marriage is — 'gad! a cursed bore!" 

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan, 
Rises indignant from his throne. 
And mocks their self-reviling tears. 
And whispers thus in Folly's ears : 
" O frivolous of heart and head ! 
If strifes infest your nuptial bed. 
Not Hymen's hand, but guilt and sin. 
Fashion and folly, force them in ; 
If on your couch is seated Care, 
I did not bring the scoffer there ; 
If Hymen's torch is feebler grown. 
The hand that quenched it was your own ; 
And what I am, unthinking elves, 
Ye all have made me for yourselves ! " 
85 



THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN 
HEAD 

Brazen companion of my solitary hours ! do you, while I re- 
cline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of wisdom and 
virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and 
the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our 
essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak ! 
(Slow music. The Friar falls asleep. The Head chaunts as 
follows.) — The Brazen Head. 

I THINK, whatever mortals crave, 

With impotent endeavour, — 
A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — 

The world goes round for ever : 
I think that life is not too long ; 

And therefore I determine. 
That many people read a song 

Who will not read a sermon. 

I think you 've looked through many 
hearts. 
And mused on many actions. 
And studied Man's component parts, 
And Nature's compound fractions: 
86 



CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 

I think you 've picked up truth by bits 
From foreigner and neighbour ; 

I think the world has lost its wits, 
And you have lost your labour. 



I think the studies of the w^se, 

The hero's noisy quarrel, 
The majesty of Woman's eyes, 

The poet's cherished laurel, 
And all that makes us lean or fat, 

And all that charms or troubles, — 
This bubble is more bright than that. 

But still they all are bubbles. 

I think the thing you call Renown, 

The unsubstantial vapour 
For which the soldier burns a town. 

The sonnetteer a taper. 
Is like the mist which, as he flies. 

The horseman leaves behind him ; 
He cannot mark its wreaths arise. 

Or if he does they blind him. 
87 



CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 

I think one nod of Mistress Chance 

Makes creditors of debtors, 
And shifts the funeral for the dance, 

The sceptre for the fetters : 
I think that Fortune's favoured guest 

May Hve to gnaw the platters. 
And he that wears the purple vest 

May wear the rags and tatters. 

I think the Tories love to buy 

"Your Lordship "s and "your Grace "s 
By loathing common honesty, 

And lauding commonplaces : 
I think that some are very wise, 

And some are very funny. 
And some grow rich by telling lies. 

And some by telling money. 

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves — 
(And very like the Tories) — 

Who doubt that Britain rules the waves. 
And ask the price of glories : 
88 



CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 

I think that many fret and fume 
At what their friends are planning, 

And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 
As much as Mr. Canning. 

I think that friars and their hoods, 

Their doctrines and their maggots, 
Have Hghted up too many feuds, 

And far too many faggots : 
I think, while zealots fast and frown. 

And fight for two or seven. 
That there are fifty roads to Town, 

And rather more to Heaven. 

I think that, thanks to Paget' s lance. 

And thanks to Chester's learning, 
The hearts that burned for fame in France 

At home are safe from burning : 
I think the Pope is on his back ; 

And, though 't is fun to shake him, 
I think the Devil not so black 

As many people make him. 
89 



CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 

I think that Love is like a play, 

Where tears and smiles are blended, 
Or like a faithless April day. 

Whose shine with shower is ended : 
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough. 

Like trade, exposed to losses, 
And like a Highland plaid, — all stuff. 

And very full of crosses. 

I think the world though dark it be, 

Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
Concealed in life's monotony. 

For those who seek the treasure ; 
One planet in a starless night. 

One blossom on a briar, 
One friend not quite a hypocrite. 

One woman not a liar ! 

I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 
Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 

And Death looks down with nods and smiles. 
And makes the odds all even : 
90 



CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 

I think some die upon the field. 

And some upon the billow, 
And some are laid beneath a shield, 

And some beneath a willow. 

I think that very few have sighed 

WTien Fate at last has found them, 
Though bitter foes were by their side, 

And barren moss around them : 
I think that some have died of drought. 

And some have died of drinking ; 
I think that nought is worth a thought, — 

And I 'm a fool for thinking ! 



91 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY 
NINE 

Rien n'est change, mes amis ! — Charles X. 

I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh, 

And an infant's idle laughter; 
The Old Year went with mourning by, 

The New came dancing after. 
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear, 

Let Revelry hold her ladle ! 
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier, 

Fling roses on the cradle : 
Mutes to wait on the funeral state ! 

Pages to pour the wine ! 
A requiem for Twenty-eight, 

And a health to Twenty-nine ! 

Alas for human happiness ! 

Alas for human sorrow ! 
Our yesterday is nothingness, — 

What else will be bur morrow ? 
92 



TWENTY EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 

Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, 

And Knavery stealing purses ; 
Still cooks must live by making tarts, 

And wits by making verses : 
While sages prate, and courts debate, 

The same stars set and shine ; 
And the world, as it rolled through Twenty- 
eight, 

Must roll through Twenty-nine. 

Some king ^\'ill come, in Heaven's good time. 

To the tomb his father came to ; 
Some thief will wade through blood and crime 

To a crown he has no claim to ; 
Some suffering land will rend in twain 

The manacles that bound her. 
And gather the links of the broken chain 

To fasten them proudly round her : 
The grand and great will love and hate. 

And combat, and combine ; 
And much where we were in Twenty-eight 

We shall be in Twenty-nine. 
93 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 

O 'Connell will toil to raise the rent, 

And Kenyon to sink the nation, 
And Shell will abuse the Parliament, 

And Peel the Association ; 
And the thought of bayonets and swords 

Will make ex-chancellors merry, 
And jokes will be cut in the House of 
Lords, 

And throats in the county Kerry ; 
And writers of weight will speculate 

On the Cabinet's design. 
And just what it did in Twenty-eight 

It will do in Twenty-nine. 

John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill. 

Will do a deed of mystery ; 
The Morning Chronicle will fill 

Five columns with the history ; 
The jury will be all surprise. 

The prisoner quite collected. 
And Justice Park will wipe his eyes 

And be very much affected ; 
94 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 

And folks will relate poor Corder's fate 

As they hurry home to dine. 
Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight 

With the hangings of Twenty-nine. 

And the goddess of love will keep her 
smiles, 

And the god of cups his orgies, 
And there '11 be riots in St. Giles, 

And weddings in St. George's ; 
And mendicants will sup like kings. 

And lords will swear like lacqueys, 
And black eyes oft will lead to rings. 

And rings will lead to black eyes ; 
And pretty Kate will scold her mate 

In a dialect all divine ; 
Alas ! they married in Twenty-eight, 

They will part in Twenty-nine ! 
And oh ! I shall find how, day by day, 

All thoughts and things look older ; 
How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, 

And the heart of friendship colder ; 
95 



TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 

But still I shall be what I have been. 

Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
And seldom troubled with the spleen, 

And fond of talking treason : 
I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate, 

And throw — and write — my line; 
And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight 

I shall worship in Twenty-nine ! 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

So runs the world away. — Hamlet. 

Good night to the Season ! 'T is over! 

Gay dwellings no longer are gay; 
The courtier, the gambler, the lover. 

Are scattered like swallows away: 
There 's nobody left to invite one 

Except my good uncle and spouse ; 
My mistress is bathing at Brighton, 

My patron is sailing at Cowes : 
For want of a better employment. 

Till Ponto and Don can get out, 
I '11 cultivate rural enjoyment. 

And angle immensely for trout. 

Good night to the Season! — the lobbies, 
Their changes, and rumours of change, 

Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, 
And made all the Bishops look strange ; 

The breaches, and battles, and blunders. 
Performed by the Commons and Peers ; 
97 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

The Marquis's eloquent blunders, 

The Baronet's eloquent ears ; 
Denouneings of Papists and treasons, 

Of foreign dominion and oats ; 
Misrepresentations of reasons, 

And misunderstandings of notes. 

Good night to the Season! — the buildings 

Enough to make Inigo sick ; 
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings 

Of stucco, and marble, and brick ; 
The orders deliciously blended, 

From love of effect, into one ; 
The club-houses only intended. 

The palaces only begun ; 
The hell, where the fiend in his glory 

Sits staring at putty and stones. 
And scrambles from story to story, 

To rattle at midnight his bones. 

Good night to the Season! — the dances. 
The fillings of hot little rooms, 
98 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

The glancings of rapturous glances, 

The fancyings of fancy costumes ; 
The pleasures which fashion makes du- 
ties, 

The praisings of fiddles and flutes, 
The luxury of looking at Beauties, 

The tedium of talking to mutes ; 
The female diplomatists, planners 

Of matches for Laura and Jane ; 
The ice of her Ladyship's manners. 

The ice of his Lordship's champagne. 

Good night to the Season! — the rages 

Led off by the chiefs of the throng, 
The Lady Matilda's new pages, 

The Lady Eliza's new song; 
Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's 

Was held to have something to say ; 
Mrs. Splenetic's musical poodles, 

Which bark *'Batti Batti" all day; 
The pony Sir Araby sported, 

As hot and as black as a coal, 
99 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

And the Lion his mother imported, 

In bearskins and grease, from the Pole. 

Good night to the Season! — the Toso, 

So very majestic and tall ; 
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, 

And Pasta, divinest of all ; 
The labour in vain of the ballet, 

So sadly deficient in stars ; 
The foreigners thronging the Alley, 

Exhaling the breath of cigars ; 
The loge where some heiress (how killing !) 

Environed with exquisites sits. 
The lovely one out of her drilling. 

The silly ones out of their wits. 

Good night to the Season! — the splendour 
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ; 

Where I purchased — my heart was so tender - 
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 

A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 

A lithographed Riego, full-grown, 
100 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 

That artists might draw him on stone ; 

A small panorama of Seville, 
A trap for demolishing flies, 

A caricature of the Devil, 

And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 

Good night to the Season! — the flowers 

Of the grand horticultural fete, 
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers. 

And the fashion was — not to be late; 
When all who had money and leisure 

Grew rural o'er ices and wines, 
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure. 

All hungrily pining for pines. 
And making of beautiful speeches, 

And marring of beautiful shows. 
And feeding on delicate peaches, 

And treading on delicate toes. 

Good night to the Season! — Another 
Will come, with its trifles and toys, 
101 



GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 

And hurry away, like its brother. 

In sunshine, and odour, and noise. 
Will it come with a rose or a briar ? 

Will it come with a blessing or curse ? 
Will its bonnets be lower or higher ? 

Will its morals be better or worse ? 
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter. 

Or fonder of wrong or of right. 
Or married — or buried ? — no matter: 

Good night to the Season — good night! 



10 ^ 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING- 
PLACE 

"I PLAY a spade. — Such strange new faces 

Are flocking in from near and far ; 
Such frights ! — (Miss Dobbs holds all theaces)- 

One can't imagine who they are : 
The lodgings at enormous prices, — 

New donkeys, and another fly ; 
And Madame Bonbon out of ices. 

Although we 're scarcely in July : 
We 're quite as sociable as any, 

But one old horse can scarcely crawl ; 
And really, where there are so many, 

We can't tell where we ought to call. 

"Pray who has seen the odd old fellow 
Who took the Doctor's house last week? — 

A pretty chariot, — livery yellow, 
Almost as yellow as his cheek ; 

A widower, sixty-five, and surly. 
And stiff er than a poplar-tree ; 
103 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 

Drinks rum and water, gets up early 

To dip his carcass in the sea ; 
He's always in a monstrous hurry, 

And always talking of Bengal ; 
They say his cook makes noble curry ; — 

I think, Louisa, we should call. 

"And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker. 

Has let her cottage on the hill ! — 
The drollest man, — a sugar-baker 

Last year imported from the till ; 
Prates of his 'orses and his ^oney. 

Is quite in love with fields and farms ; 
A horrid Vandal, — but his money 

Will buy a glorious coat of arms ; 
Old Clyster makes him take the waters ; 

Some say he means to give a ball ; 
And after all, with thirteen daughters, 

I think. Sir Thomas, you might call. 

'* That poor young man ! — I 'm sure and certain 
Despair is making up his shroud ; 
104 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 

He walks all night beneath the curtain 

Of the dim sky and murky cloud ; 
Draws landscapes, — throws such mournful 
glances ; 

Writes verses, — has such splendid eyes; 
An ugly name, — but Laura fancies 

He 's some great person in disguise ! — 
And since his dress is all the fashion. 

And since he 's very dark and tall, 
I think that out of pure compassion, 

I '11 get Papa to go and call. 

"So Lord St. Ives is occupying 

The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel! 
Last Saturday his man was trying 

A little nag I want to sell. 
He brought a lady in the carriage ; 

Blue eyes, — eighteen, or thereabouts; 
Of course, you know, we ho'pe it 's marriage, 

But yet \hefemme de chamhre doubts. 
She looked so pensive when we met her, 

Poor thing! — and such a charming shawl! 
105 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 

Well ! till we understand it better, 
It 's quite impossible to call ! 

" Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker, 

Arrived to-day at Premium Court ; 
I would not, for the world, cast anchor 

In such a horrid dangerous port ; 
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster, — 

(Contractors play the meanest tricks) — 
The roof's as crazy as its master. 

And he was born in fifty-six ; 
Stairs creaking — cracks in every landing, — 

The colonnade is sure to fall ; 
We shan't find post or pillar standing. 

Unless we make great haste to call. 

"Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures 
Last Sunday in the Rector's seat ? 

The finest shape, the loveliest features, — 
I never saw such tiny feet ! 

My brother, (this is quite between us) 
Poor Arthur, — 'twas a sad affair; 
106 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 

Love at first sight! — she's quite a Venus, 
But then she 's poorer far than fair ; 

And so my father and my mother 
Agreed it would not do at all ; 

And so, — I'm sorry for my brother! — 
It's settled that we're not to call. 

"And there's an author, full of knowledge; 

And there's a captain on half-pay; 
And there 's a baronet from college, 

Who keeps a boy and rides a bay; 
And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon, 

Fine specimen of brogue and bone ; 
And Doctor Calipee, the canon, 

Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone : 
A maiden lady is adorning 

The faded front of Lily Hall : — 
Upon my word, the first fine morning, 

We'll make a round, my dear, and call." 

Alas ! disturb not, maid and matron. 
The swallow in my humble thatch ; 
107 



ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 

Your son may find a better patron, 

Your niece may meet a richer match : 
I can't afford to give a dinner, 

I never was on Almack's list ; 
And, since I seldom rise a winner, 

I never like to play at whist : 
Unknown to me the stocks are falling, 

Un watched by me the glass may fall ; 
Let all the world pursue its calling, — 

I'm not at home if people call. 



108 



THE FANCY BALL 

A visor for a visor ! What care I 

What curious eye doth quote deformities? 

Romeo and Juliet, 

"You used to talk," said Miss Mac Call, 

"Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid; 
But now you never talk at all ; 

You 're getting vastly stupid : 
You 'd better burn your Blaekstone, sir, 

You never will get through it ; 
There 's a Fancy Ball at Winchester, — 

Do let us take you to it ! " 

I made that night a solemn vow 

To startle all beholders ; 
I wore white muslin on my brow, 

Green velvet on my shoulders ; 
My trousers were supremely wide, 

I learnt to swear "by Allah!" 
I stuck a poniard by my side. 

And called myself "Abdallah." 
109 



THE FANCY BALL 

Oh, a fancy ball 's a strange affair! 

Made up of silks and leathers, 
Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair, 

Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers : 
The dullest duke in all the town, 

To-day may shine a droll one ; 
And rakes, who have not half-a-crown, 

Look royal in a whole one. 

Go, call the lawyer from his pleas. 

The school-boy from his Latin ; 
Be stoics here in ecstasies. 

And savages in satin ; 
Let young and old forego — forget 

Their labour and their sorrow, 
And none — except the Cabinet — 

Take counsel for the morrow. 

Begone, dull care ! This life of ours 

Is very dark and chilly ; 
We'll sleep through all its serious hours. 

And laugh through all its silly. 
110 



THE FANCY BALL 

Be mine such motley scene as this. 
Where, by estabhshed usance. 

Miss Gravity is quite amiss, 
And Madam Sense a nuisance ! 

Hail, blest Confusion ! here are met 

All tongues and times and faces, 
The Lancers flirt with Juliet, 

The Brahmin talks of races ; 
And where 's your genius, bright Corinne ? 

And where 's your brogue. Sir Lucius ? 
And Chinca Ti, you have not seen 

One chapter of Confucius. 

Lo ! dandies from Kamschatka flirt 

With Beauties from the Wrekin ; 
And belles from Berne look very pert 

On Mandarins from Pekin ; 
The Cardinal is here from Rome, 

The Commandant from Seville; 
And Hamlet's father from the tomb, 

And Faustus from the Devil. 
Ill 



THE FANCY BALL 

sweet Anne Page! — those dancing eyes 
Have peril in their splendour ! 

"O sweet Anne Page! " — so Slender sighs, 

And what am I, but slender ? 
Alas ! when next your spells engage 

So fond and starved a sinner, 
My pretty Page, be Shakspeare's Page, 

And ask the fool to dinner! 

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray. 
What mean they, nun or fairy ? 

1 guess they told no beads to-day. 

And sang no Ave Mary : 
From mass and matins, priest and pix. 

Barred door, and window grated, 
I wish all pretty Catholics 

Were thus emancipated ! 

Four Seasons come to dance quadrilles 
With four well-seasoned sailors ; 

And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills 
With Timon, prince of railers ; 
112 



THE FANCY BALL 

I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park 
Equipt for a walk to Mecca ; 

And I run away from Joan of Arc 
To romp with sad Rebecca. 

Fair Cleopatra 's very plain ; 

Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers ; 
And Caesar 's murdered o'er again, 

Though not by Roman daggers : 
Great Charlemagne is four feet high ; 

Sad stuff has Bacon spoken ; 
Queen Mary's waist is all awry, 

And Psyche's nose is broken. 

Our happiest bride — how very odd ! — 

Is the mourning Isabella ; 
And the heaviest foot that ever trod 

Is the foot of Cinderella ; 
Here sad Calista laughs outright. 

There Yorick looks most grave, sir, 
And a Templar waves the cross to-night. 

Who never crossed the wave, sir ! 
113 



THE FANCY BALL 

And what a Babel is the talk ! 

"The GiraflPe"— "plays the fiddle" — 
** Macadam's roads " — "I hate this chalk ! " — 

*' Sweet girl " — "a charming riddle " — 
" I 'm nearly drunk with " — " Epsom salts " — 

*' Yes, separate beds " — " such cronies ! " — 
"Good Heaven! who taught that man to 
waltz?" — 

"A pair of Shetland ponies." 

"Lord Nugent" — "an enchanting shape" — 

" Will move for" — " Maraschino " — 
"Pray, Julia, how's your mother's ape?" — 

" He died at Navarino ! " 
"The gout, by Jove, is" — "apple pie" — 

"Don Miguel" — "Tom the tinker" — 
"His Lordship's pedigree 's as high 

As" — "Whipcord, dam by Clinker." 

"Love's shafts are weak" — "my chestnut 
kicks" — 
"Heart broken" — "broke the traces" — 
114 



THE FANCY BALL 

" What say you now of politics ? " — 
"Change sides and to your places." — 

"A five-barred gate" — "a precious pearl" — 
" Grave things may all be punned on ! " — 

"The Whigs, thank Heaven, are" — "out of 
curl!" — 
"Her age is" — "four by London!" 

Thus run the giddy hours away, 

Till morning's light is beaming. 
And we must go to dream by day 

All we to-night are dreaming, — 
To smile and sigh, to love and change : 

Oh, in our heart's recesses, 
We dress in fancies quite as strange 

As these our fancy dresses ! 



115 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, 
TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON 

Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable ; 

Voila pourquoi je ne saurais I'aimer. — Scribe. 

You tell me you 're promised a lover, 

My own Araminta, next week ; 
Why cannot my fancy discover 

The hue of his coat and his cheek ? 
Alas ! if he look like another, 

A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
Be deaf to your father and mother, 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 

Taught us both how to sing and to speak, 
And we loved one another with passion, 

Before we had been there a week : 
You gave me a ring for a token ; 

I wear it wherever I go ; 
I gave you a chain, — is it broken ? 

My own Araminta, say *'No!" 
116 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

O think of our favourite cottage, 

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! 
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 

And drank of the stream from the brook ; 
How fondly our lo\^ng lips faltered 

"What further can grandeur bestow?" 
My heart is the same; — is yours altered ? 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

Remember the thrilling romances 

We read on the bank in the glen ; 
Remember the suitors our fancies 

Would picture for both of us then. 
They wore the red cross on their shoulder, 

They had vanquished and pardoned their foe; 
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ? 

My own Araminta, say "No ! " 

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage 
Drove off with your cousin Justine, 

You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage. 
And whispered "How base she has been!" 
117 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

You said you were sure it would kill you, 
If ever your husband looked so ; 

And you will not apostatize, — will you ? 
My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

When I heard I was going abroad, love, 

I thought I was going to die ; 
We walked arm in arm to the road, love, 

We looked arm in arm to the sky ; 
And I said " When a foreign postilion 

Has hurried me off to the Po, 
Forget not Medora Trevilian : 

My own Araminta, say * No ! ' " 

We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 

Reach far over valley and hill ; 
I muse o'er your exquisite letters. 

And feel that your heart is mine still ; 
And he who would share it with me, love, 

The richest of treasures below, — 
If he 's not what Orlando should be, love. 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 
118 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 

If he comes to you riding a cob. 
If he talks of his baking or brewing, 

If he puts up his feet on the hob. 
If he ever drinks port after dinner, 

If his brow or his breeding is low, 
If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

If he studies the news in the papers 

While you are preparing the tea. 
If he talks of the damps or the vapours 

While moonlight lies soft on the sea. 
If he 's sleepy while you are capricious. 

If he has not a musical " Oh ! " 
If he does not call Werther delicious, — 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

If he ever sets foot in the City 

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 

If he has not a heart full of pity, 

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
119 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

If his lips are not redder than roses, 
If his hands are not whiter than snow, 

If he has not the. model of noses, — 
My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

If he speaks of a tax or a duty, 

If he does not look grand on his knees. 
If he 's blind to a landscape of beauty. 

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
If he dotes not on desolate towers. 

If he likes not to hear the blast blow. 
If he knows not the language of flowers, - 

My own Araminta, say "No! " 

He must walk — like a god of old story 

Come down from the home of his rest ; 
He must smile — like the sun in his glory 

On the buds he loves ever the best ; 
And oh ! from its ivory portal 

Like music his soft speech must flow ! — 
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal. 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 
120 



A LETTER OF ADVICE 

Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 

Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
Don't look at his seat in the county, 

Don't calculate what he is worth ; 
But give him a theme to WTite verse on. 

And see if he turns out his toe ; 
If he 's only an excellent person, — 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 



121 



THE TALENTED MAN 

A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A 
LADY AT LAUSANNE 

Dear Alice ! you '11 laugh when you know it, — 

Last week, at the Duchess's ball, 
I danced with the clever new poet, — 

You've heard of him,— Tully St. Paul. 
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic ; 

I wish you had seen Lady Anne ! 
It really was very romantic. 

He is such a talented man ! 

He came up from Brazen Nose College, 

Just caught, as they call it, this spring ; 
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge 

Of every conceivable thing. 
Of science and logic he chatters, 

As jBne and as fast as he can ; 
Though I am no judge of such matters, 

I 'm sure he 's a talented man. 
122 



THE TALENTED MAN 

His stories and jests are delightful ; — 

Not stories or jests, dear, for you; 
The jests are exceedingly spiteful, 

The stories not always quite true. 
Perhaps to be kind and veracious 

May do pretty well at Lausanne ; 
But it never would answer, — good gracious ! 

Chez nous — in a talented man. 



He sneers, — how my Alice would scold him ! - 

At the bliss of a sigh or a tear ; 
He laughed — only think! — when I told him 

How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year ; 
I vow I was quite in a passion ; 

I broke all the sticks of my fan ; 
But sentiment 's quite out of fashion 

It seems, in a talented man. 

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral. 

Has told me that Tully is vain, 
And apt — which is silly — to quarrel. 

And fond — which is sad — of champagne. 
123 



THE TALENTED MAN 

I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, 
For I saw, when my Lady began. 

It was only the Dowager's malice; — 
She does hate a talented man ! 

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love. 

Is all that these eyes can adore ; 
He 's lame, — but Lord Byron was lame, 
love, 

And dumpy, — but so is Tom Moore. 
Then his voice, — such a voice ! my sweet 
creature. 

It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: 
But oh ! what 's a tone or a feature. 

When once one 's a talented man ? 

My mother, you know, all the season. 
Has talked of Sir GeofiFrey's estate ; 

And truly, to do the fool reason. 
He has been less horrid of late. 

But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, 
I'll tell her to lay down her plan; — 
124 



THE TALENTED MAN 

If ever I venture on marriage, 
It must be a talented man ! 

P. S. — I have found, on reflection. 

One fault in my friend, — entre noits; 
Without it, he'd just be perfection; — 

Poor fellow, he has not a sou ! 
And so, when he comes in September 

To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, 
I 've promised mamma to remember 

He 's only a talented man ! 



125 



LETTERS FROM TElGNMOUTH 



OUR BALL 

Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que 
vraimeut il est bien change ; n'est ce pas, mon papa ? — Les 
Pkbmiers Amours. 

You'll come to our Ball; — since we parted, 

I 've thought of you more than I '11 say ; 
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted 

For a week, when they took you away. 
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
And echoed the musical numbers 

Which you used to sing to me then. 
I know the romance, since it's over, 

'T were idle, or worse, to recall ; 
I know you 're a terrible rover ; 

But Clarence, you '11 come to our Ball ! 

It's only a year, since, at College, 
You put on your cap and your gown ; 
126 



OUR BALL 

But, Clarence, you're grown out of know- 
ledge, 

And changed from the spur to the crown : 
The voice that was best when it faltered 

Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
And the smile that should never have altered - 

Dear Clarence — it is not your own: 
Your cravat was badly selected ; 

Your coat don't become you at all ; 
And why is your hair so neglected ? 

You must have it curled for our Ball. 

I 've often been out upon Haldon 

To look for a covey with pup ; 
I 've often been over to Shaldon, 

To see how your boat is laid up : 
In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 

I 've ridden the filly you broke ; 
And I 've studied your sweet little Dante 

In the shade of your favourite oak : 
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 

I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
127 



LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 

And I '11 wear what you brought me from Flor- 
ence, 
Perhaps, if you '11 come to our Ball. 

You '11 find us all changed since you van- 
ished ; 

We've set up a National School; 
And waltzing is utterly banished. 

And Ellen has married a fool ; 
The Major is going to travel. 

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, 
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 

Papa is laid up with the gout ; 
And Jane has gone on with her easels. 

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 

You '11 meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, 
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, 

And Lucy, who made me so silly 
At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
128 



OUR BALL 

Miss Manners, who always abused you 

For talking so much about Ilock, 
And her sister, who often amused you 

By raving of rebels and Rock ; 
And something which surely would an- 
swer, 

An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
So, though you were seldom a dancer. 

You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 

But out on the World ! from the flowers 

It shuts out the sunshine of truth : 
It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 

It makes an old age of our youth ; 
And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 

Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; 

Sweet honey is turned into gall ; 
Perhaps you have no recollection 

That ever you danced at our Ball ! 
129 



LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 

You once could be pleased wdth our bal- 
lads, — 

To-day you have critical ears ; 
You once could be charmed with our salads - 

Alas ! you 've been dining with Peers ; 
You trifled and flirted with many, — 

You 've forgotten the when and the how ; 
There was one you liked better than any, — 

Perhaps you 've forgotten her now. 
But of those you remember most newly. 

Of those who delight or enthrall. 
None love you a quarter so truly 

As some you will find at our Ball. 

They tell me you 've many who flatter, 

Because of your wit and your song : 
They tell me — and what does it matter ? — 

You like to be praised by the throng : 
They tell me you 're shadowed with laurel : 

They tell me you 're loved by a Blue : 
They tell me you're sadly immoral — 

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! 
130 



OUR BALL 

But to me, you are still what I found you, 

Before you grew clever and tall ; 
And you'll think of the spell that once bound 
you; 
And you'll come — won't you come? — to our 
Ball! 



131 



LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
II 

PRIVATE THEATRICALS 

Sweet, when actors first appear, 

The loud collision of applauding gloves. — Moultrie. 

Your labours, my talented brother, 

Are happily over at last : 
They tell me — that, somehow or other, 

The Bill is rejected, — or past; 
And now you '11 be coming, I 'm certain, 

As fast as your posters can crawl. 
To help us to draw up our curtain. 

As usual, at Fustian Hall. 

Arrangements are nearly completed ; 

But still we've a Lover or two. 
Whom Lady Albina entreated 

We 'd keep, at all hazards, for you : 
Sir Arthur makes horrible faces ; 

Lord John is a trifle too tall ; 
132 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS 

And yours are the safest embraces 
To faint in, at Fustian Hall. 

Come, Clarence; — it's really enchanting 

To listen and look at the rout : 
We 're all of us puffing and panting. 

And raving, and running about ; 
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle ; 

There Andrew and Anthony bawl ; 
Flutes murmur — chains rattle — robes 
rustle 

In chorus, at Fustian Hall. 

By the bye, there are two or three matters 

We want you to bring us from Town : 
The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's, 

A nose and a hump for the Clown ; 
We want a few harps for our banquet; 

We want a few masks for our ball ; 
And steal from your wise friend Bosan- 
quet 

His white wig, for Fustian Hall! 
133 



LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre ; 

Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl ; 
And we 're quite at a stand still with Weber 

For want of a lizard and owl : 
And then, for our funeral procession, 

Pray get us a love of a pall, — 
Or how shall we make an impression 

On feelings, at Fustian Hall ? 

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us. 

If you '11 do your endeavour to bring. 
From the Club, a young person to write us 

Our prologue, and that sort of thing ; 
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, 

Is gone for a Judge to Bengal ; 
I fear we shall miss him extremely 

This season, at Fustian Hall. 

Come, Clarence ! your idol Albina 

Will make a sensation, I feel ; 
We all think there never was seen a 

Performer so like the O'Neill : 
134 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS 

At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy 

Has deeply affected us all ; 
For one tear that trickles at Drury, 

There '11 be twenty at Fustian Hall ! 

Dread objects are scattered before her 

On purpose to harrow her soul ; 
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her, 

At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. 
The sword never seems to alarm her 

That hangs on a peg to the wall ; 
And she dotes on thy rusty old armour, 

Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall. 

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning, — 

(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath !) — 
And trampled, in anger and scorning, 

A bonnet and feathers to death. 
But hark! — I've a part in "The Stranger," - 

There's the Prompter's detestable call! 
Come, Clarence — our Romeo and Ranger — 

We want you at Fustian Hall ! 
135 



TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 

A DROPT LETTER FROM A LADY 

Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget, 

Was entered at Eton last May; 
But really, I 'm all in a fidget 

Till the dear boy is taken away ; 
For I feel an alarm which, I 'm certain, 

A mother to you may confess. 
When the newspaper draws up the curtain, 

The terrible Windsor Express. 

You know I was half broken-hearted 

When the poor fellow whispered " Good- 
bye!" 
As soon as the carriage had started 

I sat down in comfort to cry. 
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted. 

Deriding — the bear ! — my distress ; 
But what were the hardships I painted, 

To the tales of the Windsor Express ? 
136 



TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 

The planter in sultry Barbadoes 

Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt ; 
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes 

His ignorant serfs with the knout ; 
Severely men smart for their errors 

WTio dine at a man-of-war's mess ; 
But Eton has crueller terrors 

Than these, — in the Windsor Express. 

I fancied the Doctor at College 

Had dipped, now and then, into books ; 
But, bless me ! I find that his knowledge 

Is just hke my coachman's, or cook's : 
He's a dunce — I have heard it with sorrow; 

'T would puzzle him sadly, I guess. 
To put into English to-morrow 

A page of the Windsor Express. 

All preachers of course should be preaching 
That virtue 's a very good thing ; 

All tutors of course should be teaching 
To fear God, and honour the King; 
137 



TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 

But at Eton they've regular classes 

For folly, for vice, for excess ; 
They learn to be villains and asses. 

Nothing else — in the Windsor Express. 

Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy, 

Believes that she nursed him in vain ; 
Old John, who takes care of the filly. 

Says " He '11 ne'er come to mount her again ! 
My Juliet runs up to her mother, 

And cries, with a mournful caress, 
" Oh where have you sent my poor brother ? 

Look, look at the Windsor Express ! " 

Ring, darling, and order the carriage ; 

Whatever Sir Thomas may say, — 
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage, - 

I '11 take him directly away. 
For of all their atrocious ill-treating 

The end it is easy to guess ; — 
Some day they'll be killing and eating 

My boy — in the Windsor Express! 
138 



UTOPIA 

I can dream, sir, 

If I eat well and sleep well. — The Mad Lover. 

If I could scare the light away, 

No sun should ever shine ; 
If I could bid the clouds obey. 

Thick darkness should be mine : 
Where'er my weary footsteps roam, 

I hate whate'er I see ; 
And Fancy builds a fairer home 

In slumber's hour for me. 

I had a vision yesternight 

Of a lovelier land than this. 
Where heaven was clothed in warmth and 
light, 

Where earth was full of bliss ; 
And every tree was rich with fruits, 

And every field with flowers, 
And every zephyr wakened lutes 

In passion-haunted bowers. 
139 



UTOPIA 

I clambered up a lofty rock, 

And did not find it steep ; 
I read through a page and a half of Locke, 

And did not fall asleep ; 
I said whate'er I may but feel, 

I paid whate'er I owe ; 
And I danced one day an Irish reel, 

With the gout in every toe. 

And I was more than six feet high, 

And fortunate, and wise ; 
And I had a voice of melody 

And beautiful black eyes ; 
My horses like the lightning went. 

My barrels carried true. 
And I held my tongue at an argument. 

And winning cards at Loo. 

I saw an old Italian priest 

Who spoke without disguise ; 
I dined with a judge who swore, like Best, 

All libels should be lies : 
140 



UTOPIA 

I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf, 
Of wheat, and nothing more ; 

I danced with a female philosophe. 
Who was not quite a bore. 

The kitchens there had richer roast, 

The sheep wore whiter wool ; 
I read a witty Morning Post, 

And an innocent John Bull : 
The gaolers had nothing at all to do, 

The hangman looked forlorn, 
And the Peers had passed a vote or two 

For freedom of trade in corn. 

There was a crop of wheat, which grew 

WTiere plough was never brought ; 
There was a noble Lord, who knew 

WTiat he was never taught : 
A scheme appeared in the Gazette 

For a lottery with no blanks ; 
And a Parliament had lately met. 

Without a single Bankes. 
141 



UTOPIA 

And there were kings who never went 

To cuffs for half-a-crown ; 
And lawyers who were eloquent 

Without a wig and gown ; 
x'^lnd sportsmen who forbore to praise 

Their greyhounds and their guns ; 
And poets who deserved the bays, 

And did not dread the duns. 

And boroughs were bought without a test, 

And no man feared the Pope ; 
And the Irish cabins were all possest 

Of liberty and soap ; 
And the Chancellor, feeling very sick, 

Had just resigned the seals ; 
And a clever little Catholic 

Was hearing Scotch appeals. 

I went one day to a Court of Law 
Where a fee had been refused ; 

And a Public School I really saw 
Where the rod was never used ; 
142 



UTOPIA 

And the sugar still was very sweet, 
Though all the slaves were free ; 

And all the folk in Downing Street 
Had learnt the rule of three. 

There love had never a fear or doubt ; 

December breathed like June : 
The Prima Donna ne'er was out 

Of temper — or of tune; 
The streets were paved Tvith mutton pies. 

Potatoes ate like pine ; 
Nothing looked black but woman's eyes ; 

Nothing grew old but wine. 

It was an idle dream ; but thou, 

The worshipped one, wert there. 
With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow, 

WTiite neck and floating hair ; 
And oh, I had an honest heart, 

And a house of Portland stone ; 
And thou wert dear, as still thou art, 

And more than dear, my own ! 

143 



UTOPIA 

Oh bitterness! — the morning broke 

Alike for boor and bard ; 
And thou wert married when I woke, 

And all the rest was marred : 
And toil and trouble, noise and steam, 

Came back with the coming ray ; 
And, if I thought the dead could dream, 

I 'd hang myself to-day ! 



144 



MARRIAGE CHIMES 

Go together, 

You precious winners all. — Wintee's Tale. 

Fair Lady, ere you put to sea, 

You and your mate together, 
I meant to hail you lo\angly, 

And wish you pleasant weather. 
I took my fiddle from the shelf; 

But vain was all my labour ; 
For still I thought about myself, 

And not about my neighbour. 

Safe from the perils of the war. 

Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing — 
Since many things in common are 

Between campaigns and kissing — 
Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring. 

Love's carte and tierce I 've parried. 
While half my friends are marrying, 

And half — good lack! — are married. 
145 



MARRIAGE CHIMES 

'T is strange — but I have passed alive 

Where darts and deaths were plenty, 
Until I find my twenty-five 

As lonely as my twenty : 
And many lips have sadly sighed — 

Which were not made for sighing, 
And many hearts have darkly died — 

Which never dreamed of dying. 

Some victims fluttered like a fly. 

Some languished like a lily ; 
Some told their tale in poetry, 

And some in Piccadilly : 
Some yielded to a Spanish hat. 

Some to a Turkish sandal ; 
Hosts suffered from an entrechat. 

And one or two from Handel. 

Good Sterling said no dame should come 
To be the queen of his bourn, 

But one who only prized her home. 
Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne : 
146 



MARRIAGE CHIMES 

And Mrs. Sterling says odd things 
With most sublime efFront'ry ; 

Gives lectm'es on elliptic springs, 
And follows hounds 'cross country. 

Sir Roger had a Briton's pride 

In freedom, plough, and furrow; — 
No fortune hath Sir Roger's bride, 

Except a rotten borough : 
Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs, 

Contentment and a cottage; — 
His Laura brings a pair of plums 

To boil the poor man's pottage. 

My rural coz., who loves his peace, 

And swore at scientifics, 
Is flirting with a lecturer's niece. 

Who construes hieroglyphics : 
And Foppery's fool, who hated Blues 

Worse than he hated Holborn, 
Is raving of a pensive Muse, 

Who does the verse for Colburn. 
147 



MARRIAGE CHIMES 

And Vyvyan, Humour's crazy child, — 

Whose worship, whim, or passion. 
Was still for something strange and wild. 

Wit, wickedness, or fashion, — 
Is happy with a little Love, 

A parson's pretty daughter. 
As tender as a turtle-dove, — 

As dull as milk and water. 

And Gerard hath his Northern Fay — 

His nymph of mirth and haggis ; 
And Courtenay wins a damsel gay 

Who figures at Colnaghi's ; 
And Davenant now has drawn a prize, — 

I hope and trust, a Venus, 
Because there are some sympathies — 

As well as leagues — between us. 

Thus north and south, and east and west, 
The chimes of Hymen dingle ; 

But I shall wander on, unblest. 
And singularly single ; 
148 



MARRIAGE CHIMES 

Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained, 

And often captivated, 
Yet, save on circuit — unretained. 

And, save at chess — unmated. 

Yet oh ! -7- if Nemesis with me 

Should sport, as with my betters, 
And put me on my awkward knee 

To prate of flowers and fetters, — 
I know not whose the eyes should be 

To make this fortress tremble ; 
But yesternight I dreamt, — ah me! 

Whose they should most resemble ! 



149 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 

" Floreat Etona." 

Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and traffics : 
I wondered what they meant by stock ; 

I wrote delightful sapphics ; 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

I supped with Fates and Furies, — 
Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy, at Drury's. 

Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures 
Those whispered syllables have brought 

From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 

The glories and disgraces, 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of old familiar faces ! 
150 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 

Kind Mater smiles again to me, 

As bright as when we parted ; 
I seem again the frank, the free, 

Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted ! 
Pursuing every idle dream. 

And shunning every warning ; 
With no hard work but Bovney stream. 

No chill except Long Morning : 

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket ; 
Now hearing Wentworth's " Fourteen all ! 

And striking for the pocket ; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter ; 
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch. 

Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends ? I am alone ; 

No playmate shares my beaker : 
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, 

And some — before the Speaker; 
151 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 

And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo ; 
And some draw sword for Liberty, 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 

Without the fear of sessions ; 
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities. 

As much as false professions ; 
Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic ; 
And Medlar's feet repose unscanned 

Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 

Does Dr. Martext's duty; 
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin. 

Is married to a Beauty ; 
And Darrell studies, week by week. 

His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 
152 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 

And I am eight-and-twenty now; — 

The world's cold chains have bound me ; 
And darker shades are on my brow 

And sadder scenes around me : 
In Parliament I fill my seat. 

With many other noodles ; 
And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often, when the cares of life 

Have set my temples aching, 
When visions haunt me of a wife, 

When duns await my waking. 
When Lady Jane is in a pet. 

Or Hoby in a hurry. 
When Captain Hazard Tsdns a bet, 

Or BeauKeu spoils a curry, — 

For hours and hours I think and talk 

Of each remembered hobby ; 
I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, 

To shiver in the lobby ; 
153 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 

I wish that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee, 

Where bearded men appear to-day 
Just Eton boys grown heavy, — 

That I could bask in childhood's sun 

And dance o'er childhood's roses. 
And find huge wealth in one pound one. 

Vast wit in broken noses. 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milk-maids Houris, — 
That I could be a boy again, — 

A happy boy, — at Drury's. 



154 



PALINODIA 

Nee meus hie eermo est, sed quern praecepit. — Horace. 

There was a time, when I could feel 

All passion's hopes and fears ; 
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal 

By smiles, and sighs, and tears. 
The days are gone! no more — no more 

The cruel Fates allow ; 
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four, — 
I 'm not a lover now. 

Lady, the mist is on my sight. 

The chill is on my brow; 
My day is night, my bloom is blight; 
I 'm not a lover now ! 

I never talk about the clouds, 

I laugh at girls and boys, 
I 'm growing rather fond of crowds. 

And very fond of noise ; 
155 



PALINODIA 

I never wander forth alone 

Upon the mountain's brow ; 
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

I never wish to raise a veil, 

I never raise a sigh ; 
I never tell a tender tale, 

I never tell a lie : 
I cannot kneel, as once I did ; 

I 've quite forgot my bow ; 
I never do as I am bid ; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

I make strange blunders every day. 

If I would be gallant ; 
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey. 

And nieces for their aunt : 
I fly from folly, though it flows 

From lips of loveliest glow ; 
I don't object to length of nose; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 
156 



PALINODIA 

I jfind my Ovid very dry, 

My Petrarch quite a pill, 
Cut Fancy for Philosophy, 

Tom Moore for Mr. Mill. 
And belles may read, and beaux may write,- 

I care not who or how ; 
I burnt my Album, Sunday night; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

I don't encourage idle dreams 

Of poison or of ropes : 
I cannot dine on airy schemes ; 

I cannot sup on hopes : 
New milk, I own, is very fine 

Just foaming from the cow ; 
But yet, I want my pint of wine ; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

WTien Laura sings young hearts away, 

I 'm deafer than the deep ; 
When Leonora goes to play, 

I sometimes go to sleep ; 
157 



PANINODIA 

When Mary draws her white gloves out, 

I never dance, I vow, — 
** Too hot to kick one's heels about ! " 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

I 'm busy, now, with state affairs ; 

I prate of Pitt and Fox ; 
I ask the price of rail-road shares, 

I watch the turns of stocks. 
And this is life ! no verdure blooms 

Upon the withered bough : 
I save a fortune in perfumes; — 

I 'm not a lover now ! 

I may be yet, what others are, 

A boudoir's babbling fool. 
The flattered star of Bench or Bar, 

A party's chief, or tool : — 
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear, 

The palace or the plough, — 
My heart and lute are broken here ; 

I 'm not a lover now ! 
158 



PALINODIA 



Lady, the mist is on my sight, 

The chill is on my brow; 
My day is night, my bloom is blight; 

I'm not a lover now! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND SENTIMENT 



MY FIRST FOLLY 

STANZAS WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT 

Pretty Coquette, the ceaseless play 

Of thine unstudied wit, 
And thy dark eye's remembered ray 

By buoyant fancy lit. 
And thy young forehead's clear expanse, 
Where the locks slept, as through the dance, 

Dreamlike, I saw thee flit, 
Are far too warm and far too fair 
To mix with aught of earthly care; 
But the vision shall come when my day is done, 
A frail and a fair and a fleeting one ! 

And if the many boldly gaze 

On that bright brow of thine. 
And if thine eye's undying rays 

On countless coxcombs shine. 
And if thy wit flings out its mirth, 
Which echoes more of air than earth. 

For other ears than mine, 
163 



MY FIRST FOLLY 

I heed not this ; ye are fickle things, 
And I like your very wanderings ; 
I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss, 
Pretty capricious ! I heed not this. 

In sooth I am a wayward youth, 

As fickle as the sea, 
And very apt to speak the truth, 

Unpleasing though it be ; 
I am no lover ; yet as long 
As I have heart for jest or song, 

An image, Sweet, of thee. 
Locked in my heart's remotest treasures. 
Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures ; 
This from the scoffer thou hast won. 
And more than this he gives to none. 



164 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF "LILLIAN 

Talk not to me of learned dust, 

Of reasoning and renown, 
Of withering wreath and crumbling bust. 

Torn book and tattered gown ; 
Oh Wisdom lives in Folly's ring. 
And beards, thank Heaven, are not the thing ! 

Then let me live a long romance, 

And learn to trifle well ; 
And write my motto, "Vive la danse," 

And "Vive la bagatelle!" 
And give all honour, as is fit. 
To sparkling eyes, and sparkling wit. 

And let me deem, when Sophs condemn 

And Seniors burn my lays. 
That some bright eyes \\ill smile on them. 

And some kind hearts will praise ; 
165 



STANZAS 

And thus my little book shall be 
A mine of pleasant thoughts to me. 

And we, perchance, may meet no more; 

For other accents sound, 
And darker prospects spread before, 

And colder hearts come round ; 
And cloistered walk and grated pane 
Must wear their wonted gloom again. 

But those who meet, as we have met. 
In frolic and in laughter, — 

O dream not they can e'er forget 
The thoughts that linger after ; 

That parted friend and faded scene 

Can be as if they ne'er had been : 

No ! I shall miss that merry smile 
When thou hast left me lone ; 

And listen in the silent aisle 
For that remembered tone ; 

And look up to the lattice high 

For beckoning hand and beaming eye. 
166 



STANZAS 

And thou perhaps, when years are gone, 

Wilt turn these pages over, 
And waste one idle thought upon 

A rambling rhyming rover, 
And deem the Poet and his line 
Both wild, both worthless, — and both thine ! 



167 



L'INCONNUE 

Many a beaming brow I 've known , 

And many a dazzling eye, 
And I 've listened to many a melting tone 

In magic fleeting by; 
And mine was never a heart of stone, 
And yet my heart hath given to none 

The tribute of a sigh ; 
For Fancy's wild and witching mirth 
Was dearer than aught I found on earth, 
And the fairest forms I ever knew 
Were far less fair than — L'Inconnue ! 

Many an eye that once was bright 

Is dark to-day in gloom ; 
Many a voice that once was light 

Is silent in the tomb ; 
Many a flower that once was dight 
In beauty's most entrancing might 

Hath faded in its bloom ; 
168 



L INCONNUE 

But she is still as fair and gay 

As if she had sprung to life to-day ; 

A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue 

Wild Fancy hath given to — L'Inconnue. 

Many an eye of piercing jet 

Hath only gleamed to grieve me ; 
Many a fairy form I 've met, 

But none have wept to leave me ; 
When all forsake, and all forget, 
One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet, 

One hope shall not deceive me ; 
For oh ! when all beside is past, 
Fancy is found our friend at last. 
And the faith is firm and the love is true 
Which are vowed by the lips of — L'Inconnue! 



169 



TO 

I 

We met but in one giddy dance, 

Good-night joined hands with greeting; 
And twenty thousand things may chance 

Before our second meeting : 
For oh ! I have been often told 

That all the world grows older, 
And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold. 

To-morrow must be colder, 

II 
If I have never touched the string 

Beneath your chamber, dear one. 
And never said one civil thing 

When you were by to hear one, — 
If I have made no rhymes about 

Those looks which conquer Stoics, 
And heard those angel tones, without 

One fit of fair heroics, — 
170 



TO 

III 

Yet do not, though the world's cold school 
Some bitter truths has taught me, 

do not deem me quite the fool 
Which wiser friends have thought me ! 

There is one charm I still could feel, 

If no one laughed at feeling ; 
One dream my lute could still reveal, — 

If it were worth revealing. 

IV 

But Folly little cares what name 

Of friend or foe she handles, 
When merriment directs the game. 

And midnight dims the candles ; 

1 know that Folly's breath is weak 

And would not stir a feather; 
But yet I would not have her speak 
Your name and mine together. 

V 

Oh no ! this life is dark and bright. 
Half rapture and half sorrow; 
171 



TO 

My heart is very full to-night, 

My cup shall be to-morrow : 
But they shall never know from me, 

On any one condition, 
Whose health made bright my Burgundy, 

Whose beauty was my vision ! 



172 



AN EXCUSE 

Blame not the Minstrel's wayward will : 

His soul has slumbered all too long ; 
He has no pulse for passion's thrill, 

No lute for passion's song. 
O frown not, though he turns away 

Unloved, unloving, even from thee, 
And mars with idle jests the lay 

Where Beauty's praise should be. 

If he should bid the golden string 

Be vocal to a loftier theme. 
Sad Memory from her cell would bring 

The fond forbidden dream ; 
The dream of her, whose broken chain 

Than new forged bonds is far more dear ; 
Whose name he may not speak again, 

And shudders but to hear. 

And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears 
In many a soulless idol's shrine, 
173 



AN EXCUSE 

The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears 

Were never fit for thine. 
Take back, take back the book to-night ; 

Thou art too brightly — nobly fair, 
For hearts so worn as his to write 

Their worthless worship there. 



174 



SECOND LOVE 



L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la premiere. Les 
amours qui suivent sont moins iuvolontaires ! — La BRuriiRE. 



How shall he woo her ? — Let him stand 

Beside her as she sings ; 
And watch that fine and fairy hand 

Flit o'er the quivering strings : 
And let him tell her he has heard, 

Though sweet the music flow, 
A voice whose every whispered word 

Was sweeter, long ago. 

How shall he woo her ? — Let him gaze 

In sad and silent trance 
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays 

Look love in every glance : 
And let him tell her, eyes more bright. 

Though bright her own may beam. 
Will fling a deeper spell to-night 

Upon him in his dream. 
175 



SECOND LOVE 

How shall he woo her ? — Let him try 

The charms of olden time, 
And swear by earth and sea and sky, 

And rave in prose and rhyme : 
And let him tell her, when he bent 

His knee in other years, 
He was not half so eloquent, — 

He could not speak for tears ! 

How shall he woo her ? — Let him bow 

Before the shrine in prayer ; 
And bid the priest pronounce the vow 

That hallows passion there : 
And let him tell her, when she parts 

From his unchidden kiss. 
That memory to many hearts 

Is dearer far than bliss. 

Away, away ! the chords are mute, 

The bond is rent in twain ; 
You cannot wake that silent lute. 

Nor clasp those links again ; 
176 



SECOND LOVE 



Love's toil, I know, is little cost, 
Love's perjury is light sin; 

But souls that lose what his hath lost,- 
Oh what have they to win ? 



177 



LOVE AT A ROUT 

When some mad bard sits down to muse 
About the lilies and the dews, 
The grassy vales and sloping lawns, 
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns, 
He 's apt to think, he 's apt to swear. 
That Cupid reigns not anywhere 
Except in some sequestered village 
Where peasants live on truth and tillage. 
That none are fair enough for witches 
But maids who frisk through dells and 

ditches, 
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances. 
That cities never breed romances. 
That Beauty always keeps a cottage, 
And Purity grows pale on pottage. 

Yes ! those dear dreams are all divine ; 
And those dear dreams have all been mine. 
I like the stream, the rock, the bay, 
I like the smell of new-mown hay, 
178 



LOVE AT A ROUT 

I like the babbling of the brooks, 
I like the creaking of the crooks, 
I like the peaches, and the posies, — 
But chiefly, when the season closes, 
And often, in the month of fun. 
When every poacher cleans his gun. 
And cockneys tell enormous lies. 
And stocks are pretty sure to rise, 
And e'en the Chancellor, they say. 
Goes to a point the nearest way, 
I hurry from my drowsy desk 
To revel in the picturesque. 
To hear beneath those ancient trees 
The far-off murmur of the bees. 
Or trace yon river's mazy channels 
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels, 
Combining foolish rhymes together. 
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather. 

Then, as I see some rural maid 
Come dancing up the sunny glade. 
Coquetting with her fond adorer 
179 



LOVE AT A ROUT 

Just as her mother did before her, 
"Give me," I cry, "the quiet bliss 
Of souls like these, of scenes like this ; 
Where ladies eat and sleep in peace. 
Where gallants never heard of Greece, 
Where day is day, and night is night, 
Where frocks — and morals — both are white ; 
Blue eyes below — blue skies above — 
These are the homes, the hearts, for Love ! " 

But this is idle ; I have been 
A sojourner in many a scene. 
And picked up wisdom in my way. 
And cared not what I had to pay ; 
Smiling and weeping all the while, 
As other people weep and smile ; 
And I have learnt that Love is not 
Confined to any hour or spot ; 
He lights the smile and fires the frown 
Alike in country and in town. 
I own fair faces not more fair 
In Ettrick, than in Portman Square, 
180 



LOVE AT A ROUT 

And silly danglers just as silly 

In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly. 

Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt. 

For having harps to help them out ; 

And smiles are not a ray more bright 

By moonbeams, than by candle-light ; 

I know much magic oft reposes 

On wreaths of artificial roses. 

And snowy necks, — I never found them 

Quite spoilt by having cameos round them. 

In short, I 'm very sure that all 

Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall 

May breathe their vows, and feed their passion, 

Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion. 

And make the most delicious sonnets, 

In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets ! 



181 



THE MODERN NECTAR 

One day, as Bacchus wandered out 

From his own gay and glorious heaven, 
To see what mortals were about 

Below, 'twixt six o'clock and seven, 
And laugh at all the toils and tears. 
The endless hopes, the causeless fears. 
The midnight songs, the morning smarts, 
The aching heads, the breaking hearts, 
Which he and his fair crony Venus 
Within the month had sown between us. 
He lighted by chance on a jfiddling fellow 
Who never was known to be less than mel- 
low, 
A wandering poet, who thought it his duty 
To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty, 
Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quar- 
rel, 
And cared not a single straw for laurel, 
Holding that grief was sobriety's daughter. 
And loathing critics, and cold water. 
182 



THE MODERN NECTAR 

Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted, 
The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted ; 
Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather. 
They sate them down, and drank together : 
They drank of all fluids that ever were poured 
By an English lout, or a German lord. 
Rum and shrub and brandy and gin, 
One after another, they stowed them in. 
Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux. 
Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes. 
Humble Port, and proud Tokay, 
Persico, and Creme de The, 
The blundering Irishman's Usquebaugh, 
The fiery Welshman's Cwrw da ; 
And after toasting various names 
Of mortal and immortal flames. 
And whispering more than I or you know 
Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno, 
The god departed, scarcely knowing 
A zephyr's from a nose's blowing, 
A frigate from a pewter flagon. 
Or Thespis from his own stage waggon ; 
183 



THE MODERN NECTAR 

And rolling about like a barrel of grog, 
He went up to heaven as drunk as a hog ! 

"Now may I," he lisped, "for ever sit 

In Lethe's darkest and deepest pit, 

Where dullness everlasting reigns 

O'er the quiet pulse and the drowsy brains. 

Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh, 

And noble lords are bound in calf. 

And Zoilus for his sins rehearses 

Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses. 

If I have not found a richer draught 

Than ever yet Olympus quaffed. 

Better and brighter and dearer far 

Than the golden sands of Pactolus are ! " 

And then he filled in triumph up. 

To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming 

cup. 
And pulling up his silver hose. 
And turning in his tottering toes, 
(While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy, 
184 



THE MODERN NECTAR 

Was laughing to see her brother tipsy,) 
He said — "May it please your high Divin- 
ity, 
This nectar is — Milk Punch at Trinity ! " 



185 



MY OWN FUNERAL 

FROM DE BERANG53R 

This morning, as in bed I lay, 

Half waking and half sleeping, 
A score of Loves, immensely gay. 

Were round my chamber creeping ; 
I could not move my hand or head 

To ask them what the stir meant ; 
And "Ah," they cried, "our friend is dead; 

Prepare for his interment ! " 

All whose hearts with mine were blended. 
Weep for me ! my days are ended ! 

One drinks my brightest Burgundy, 

Without a blush, before me ; 
One brings a little rosary. 

And breathes a blessing o'er me ; 
One finds my pretty chambermaid. 

And courts her in dumb crambo ; 
Another sees the mutes arrayed 

With fife by way of flambeau : 
186 



MY OWN FUNERAL 

In your feasting and your feting. 
Weep for me ! my hearse is waiting. 

Was ever such a strange array ? 

The mourners all are singing ; 
From all the churches on our way 

A merry peal is ringing ; 
The pall that clothes my cold remains, 

Instead of boars and dragons, 
Is blazoned o'er with darts and chains. 

With lutes, and flowers, and flagons : 
Passers-by their heads are shaking ! 
Weep for me ! my grave is making. 

And now they let my coflBn fall ; 

And one of them rehearses. 
For want of holy ritual, 

My own least holy verses : 
The sculptor carves a laurel leaf. 

And writes my name and story ; 
And silent nature in her grief 

Seems dreaming of my glory : 
187 



MY OWN FUNERAL 

Just as I am made immortal, — 
Weep for me ! — they bar the portal. 

But Isabel, by accident. 

Was wandering by that minute ; 
She opened that dark monument, 

And found her slave within it ; 
The clergy said the Mass in vain. 

The College could not save me ; 
But life, she swears, returned again 

With the first kiss she gave me : 
You who deem that life is sorrow. 
Weep for me again to-morrow ! 



188 



TIME'S SONG 

O'er the level plains, where mountains greet me 
as I go, 

O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bid- 
ding flow. 

On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by 
night, 

I am riding hence away: who will chain my 
flight? 

War his weary watch was keeping, — I have 
crushed his spear ; 

Grief within her bower was weeping, — I have 
dried her tear; 

Pleasure caught a minute's hold, — then I hur- 
ried by, 

Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet 
dry. 

Power had won a throne of glory : where is now 
his fame ? 

189 



TIME S SONG 

Genius said "I live in story:" who hath heard 

his name ? 
Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered "Why 

so fast ? " 
And the roses on his brow withered as I past. 

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild 

wave's bed; 
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle 

fed; 
Where began my wanderings ? Memory will not 

say! 
Where will rest my weary wings ? Science turns 

away! 



190 



FROM METASTASIO 

The venomous serpent, dearest, 

Shall couch with the cushat dove. 
Ere a true friend, as thou fearest, 

Shall ever be false in Love. 
From Eden's greenest mountain 

Two separate streamlets came ; 
But their source was in one fountain, 

Their waters are the same ! 



191 



REMEMBER ME 

In Seville, when the feast was long, 
And lips and lutes grew free. 

At Inez' feet, amid the throng, 
A masquer bent his knee ; 

And still the burthen of his song 
Was "Sweet, remember me! 

"Remember me in shine and shower. 

In sorrow and in glee ; 
When summer breathes upon the flower, 

When winter blasts the tree, 
When there are dances in the bower 

Or sails upon the sea. 

"Remember me beneath far skies, 

On foreign lawn or lea ; 
When others worship those wild eyes 

Which I no more may see, 
When others wake the melodies 

Of which I mar the key. 
192 



REMEMBER ME 

" Remember me ! my heart will claim 
No love, no trust, from thee ; 

Remember me, though doubt and blame 
Linked with the record be ; 

Remember me, — with scorn or shame, — 
But yet, remember me ! " 



193 



FUIMUS! 

Go to the once loved bowers ; 
Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair : 
Winter has been upon the leaves and 
flowers, — 

They were ! 

Look for the domes of kings ; 
Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! 

Oblivion sits beside them ; mockery sings 
They were ! 

Waken the minstrel's lute ; 
Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air : 
The chords are broken, and the lips are 
mute ; — 

They were ! 

Visit the great and brave; 
Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair. 
Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave ? — 
They were ! 
194 



FUIMUS 

Speak to thine own heart ; prove 
The secrets of thy nature. What is there ? 
Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, 
fond love, — 

They were ! 

We too, we too must fall ; 
A few brief years to labour and to bear ; — 
Then comes the sexton, and the old trite 
tale, 

"We were!" 



195 



LINES 

SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VERY 

FINE OLD BRANDY 

WRITTEN FOR LADY C 

Spirits there were, in olden time, 

Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things 
(As we are told in prose and rhyme) 

With wands and potions, lamps and rings; 
I know not, Lady fair, — do you ? — 
Whether those tales be false or true. 

But in our day — our dismal day 
Of sadder song and soberer mirth. 

If any spirits ever play 

Upon the faded fields of earth, 

Whose magic. Lady fair, can fling 

O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring, — 

If any spirits haunt our Isle 

Whose power can make old age look gay, 
196 



LINES 



Revive tiie tone, relume the smile. 

And chase three score of years away, 
Such spirits, Lady fair, must be 
Like those your kindness sends to me ! 



197 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING's 
COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 

Most beautiful ! I gaze and gaze 

In silence on the glorious pile, 
And the glad thoughts of other days 

Come thronging back the while. 
To me dim memory makes more dear 

The perfect grandeur of the shrine ; 
But if I stood a stranger here, 

The ground were still divine. 

Some awe the good and wise have felt, 

As reverently their feet have trod 
On any spot where man hath knelt 

To commune with his God ; 
By sacred spring, or haunted well. 

Beneath the ruined temple's gloom, 
Beside the feeble hermit's cell. 

Or the false Prophet's tomb. 

198 



STANZAS 

But when was high devotion graced 

With loveHer dwelHng, loftier throne, 
Than here the hmner's art hath traced 

From the time-honoured stone ? 
The Spirit here of Worship seems 

To bind the soul in willing thrall, 
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams 

Come at her voiceless call ; 

At midnight, when the lonely moon 

Looks from a vapour's silvery fold ; 
At morning, when the sun of June 

Crests the high towers w^th gold ; 
For every change of hour and form 

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair. 
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm. 

Are all Religion there. 



199 



LINES 

written for a blank page of "the keep- 
sake" 

Lady, there 's fragrance in your sighs, 

And sunlight in your glances ; 
I never saw such lips and eyes 

In pictures or romances ; 
And Love will readily suppose, 

To make you quite enslaving, 
That you have taste for verse and prose, 

Hot pressed, and line engraving. 

And then, you waltz so like a Fay, 

That round you envy rankles ; 
Your partner's head is turned, they say. 

As surely as his ankles ; 
And I was taught, in days far gone. 

By a most prudent mother, 
That in this world of sorrow, one 

Good turn deserves another. 
200 



LINES 

I may not win you ! — that 's a bore ! 

But yet 't is sweet to woo you ; 
And for this cause, — and twenty more, 

I send this gay book to you. 
If its songs please you, — by this light ! 

I will not hold it treason 
To bid you dream of me to-night, 

And dance with me next season. 



201 



ANTICIPATION 

" Oh yes ! he is in Parliament ; 

He's been returning thanks ; 
You can't conceive the time he 's spent 

Already on his franks. 
He '11 think of nothing, night and day. 

But place, and the gazette : " — 
No matter what the people say, — 

You won't believe them yet. 

"He filled an album, long ago, 

With such delicious rhymes ; 
Now we shall only see, you know. 

His speeches in the ' Times ; ' 
And liquid tone and beaming brow, 

Bright eyes and locks of jet. 
He '11 care for no such nonsense now : " • 

Oh ! don't believe them yet ! 

" I vow he 's turned a Goth, a Hun, 
By that disgusting Bill ; 
202 



ANTICIPATION 

He '11 never make another pun ; 

He's danced his last quadrille. 
We shall not see him flirt again 

With any fair coquette ; 
He'll never laugh at Drury Lane." — 

Psha! — don't believe them yet. 

"Last week I heard his uncle boast 

He 's sure to have the seals ; 
I read it in the ' Morning Post ' 

That he has dined at Peel's ; 
You '11 never see him any more, 

He 's in a different set : 
He cannot eat at half-past four:" — 

No ? — don't believe them yet. 

"In short, he'll soon be false and cold, 

And infinitely wise ; 
He '11 grow next year extremely old. 

He '11 tell enormous lies ; 
He '11 learn to flatter and forsake. 

To feign and to forget:" — 
203 



ANTICIPATION 



O whisper — or my heart will break - 
You won't believe them yet ! 



204 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 



Once on a time, when sunny May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers : 
Happy — he knew not whence or how, — 

And smiling, — who could choose but love 
him? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow, 

Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. 

II 
Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 

That valley's green repose invaded ; 
The brooks grew dry upon his path. 

The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 
But Time so swiftly "v\4nged his flight. 

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 
That Childhood watched his paper kite, 

And knew just nothing of the matter. 
205 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
III 

With curling lip and glancing eye 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; 
But Childhood's glance of purity 

Had such a holy spell within it, 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his bafBed pinion, 
And hid his envy and despair, 

Self -tortured, in his own dominion. 



IV 

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up. 

Pale, cypress-crowned. Night's awful daugh- 
ter. 
And proffered him a fearful cup 

Full to the brim of bitter water : 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; 
And when the beldame muttered — "Sor- 
row," 
He said, — '* Don't interrupt my game ; 
I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 
206 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
V 

The Muse of Pindus thither came, 

And wooed him with the softest num- 
bers 
That ever scattered wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
Though sweet the music of the lay, 

To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
And "Oh," he cried, "do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle ! " 



VI 

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball. 

And taught him, with most sage endeav- 
our. 
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, 

And why no toy may last for ever. 
She talked of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses, 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 
207 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
VII 

Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams 

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure. 
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given, 
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes. 

And glimpses of remembered Heaven ! 



208 



CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM 

TO MISS E S , ON HER REPEATING THE 

PRECEDING LINES 

You 've only got to curtsey, whisp— 
— er, hold your liead up, laugh aud lisp, 
And then you 're sure to take. 

Rejected Addresses. 

I 

A Poet o'er his tea and toast 

Composed a page of verse last winter, 
Transcribed it on the best Bath post, 

And sent the treasure to a printer. 
He thought it an enchanting thing ; 

And, fancpng no one else could doubt it, 
Went out, as happy as a king. 

To hear what people said about it. 

II 

Queen Fame was driving out that day ; 

And, though she scarcely seemed to know him, 
He bustled up, and tried to say 

Something about his little poem ; 
209 



CHILDHOOD S CRITICISM 

But ere from his unhappy lip 

Three timid trembling words could falter, 
The goddess cracked her noisy whip, 

And went to call upon Sir Walter ! 

Ill 

Old Criticism, whose glance observed 

The minstrel's blushes and confusion. 
Came up and told him he deserved 

The rack at least for his intrusion : 
The poor youth stared and strove to speak ; 

His tyrant laughed to see him wincing, 
And grumbled out a line of Greek, 

Which Dullness said was quite convincing. 

IV 

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch, 
Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel ; 

And" Rhyme," quoth she," won't make you rich ; 
Go home, good youth, and write a novel ! 

Cut up the follies of the age ; 

Sauce them with puns and disquisitions ; 
210 



childhood's criticism 

Let Colburn cook your title-page, 
And I'll ensure you six editions." 



Ambition met him next; — he sighed 

To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel, 
And crept into a bower to hide, 

For he and she had had a quarrel. 
The goddess of the cumbrous crown 

Called after him, in tones of pity, 
"My son, you've dropped your wig and gown! 

And, bless me, how you 've torn your Chitty ! " 

VI 

'T was all unheeded or unheard, 

For now he knocked at Beauty's portal ; 
One word from her, one golden word. 

He knew, would make his lays immortal. 
Alas ! he elbowed through a throng 

Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers, 
And found her twisting up his song 

Into the sweetest candlepapers. 
211 



CHILDHOOD S CRITICISM 
VII 

He turned away with sullen looks 

From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning. 
"To-night," he said, "I'll burn my books; 

I '11 break my harpstrings in the morning." - 
When lo, a laughing Fay drew near ; 

And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's, 
She whispered in the poet's ear 

The sounds the poet loved — his verses ! 

VIII 

He looked, and listened ; and it seemed 

In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter : 
Good lack ! till now he had not dreamed 

How bright the thought, how smooth the 
metre. 
Ere the last stanza was begun, 

He managed all his wrath to smother ; 
And when the little Nymph had done, 

Said "Thank you. Love; — I'll write an- 
other!" 



212 



BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
I 
I LOOKED for Beauty : — on a throne, 

A dazzling throne of Hght, I found her; 
And Music poured its softest tone 

And flowers their sweetest breath around 
her. 
A score or two of idle gods, 

Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants, 
Were watching all her smiles and nods. 

And making compliments and presents. 

II 

And first young Love, the rosy boy, 

Exhibited his bow and arrows. 
And gave her many a pretty toy. 

Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows : 
She told him, as he passed, she knew 

Her court would scarcely do wHithout him ; 
But yet — she hoped they were not true — 

There were some awkward tales about him. 
213 



BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
III 

Wealth deemed that magic had no charm 

More mighty than the gifts he brought her, 
And Knked around her radiant arm 

Bright diamonds of the purest water : 
The Goddess, with a scornful touch, 

Unclasped the gaudy galling fetter ; 
And said, — she thanked him very much, — 

She liked a wreath of roses better. 

IV 

Then Genius snatched his golden lute, 

And told a tale of love and glory : 
The crowd around were hushed and mute 

To hear so sad and sweet a story ; 
And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek. 

So very pale — no bust was paler; 
Vowed she could listen for a week ; 

But really — he should change his tailor! 

V 

As died the echo of the strings, 

A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her, 
214 



BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 

Looked all unutterable things, 
And swore, to see was to adore her ; 

He called her veil a cruel cloud. 

Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery : 

She fancied it was Wit that bowed ; — 
I 'm almost certain it was Flattery. 



There was a beldame finding fault 

With every person's every feature ; 
And by the sneer, and by the halt, 

I knew at once the odious creature : 
"You see," quoth Envy, "I am come 

To bow — as is my bounden duty ; — 
They tell me Beauty is at home; — 

Impossible! that canH be Beauty!" 

VII 

I heard a murmur far and wade 

Of " Lord ! how quick the dotard passes ! 
As Time threw down at Beauty's side 

The prettiest of his clocks and glasses ; 
215 



BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 

But it was noticed in the throng 

How Beauty marred the maker's cunning; 
For when she talked, the hands went wrong ; 

And when she smiled, the sands stopped run- 
ning. 



Death, in a doctor's wig and gown, 

Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither. 
And crowned her with a withered crown. 

And hinted. Beauty too must wither! 
" Avaunt! " she cried, — " how came he here ? 

The frightful fiend ! he's my abhorrence! " 
I went and whispered in her ear, 

" He shall not hurt you ! — sit to Lawrence ! " 



nQ 



HOW AM I LIKE HER? 



You are very like her. — Miss E H . 

Resemblances begin to strike 

In things exceedingly unlike. — MS. Poem. 



How am I like her ? — for no trace 
Of pain, of passion, or of aught 

That stings or stains, is on her face : — 
Mild eyes, clear forehead, — ne'er was 
wrought 

A fitter, fairer dwelling-place 

For tranquil joy and holy thought. 

How am I like her ? — for the fawn 
Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill. 

Than she, beneath the intruding dawn 
Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille ; 

Or tripping o'er our level lawn 
To those she loves upon the hill. 

How am I like her ? — for the ear 

Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone 
217 



' HOW AM I LIKE HER 

Goes forth, as eloquently clear 

As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne; 
And makes the hearts of those who hear 

As pure and peaceful as her own. 

How am I like her ? — for her ways 
Are full of bliss. She never knew 

Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise 
Insatiable ; — Love never threw 

Upon her calm and sunny days 
The venom of his deadly dew. 

How am I like her ? — for her arts 
Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall ; 

She dries the tear-drop as it starts. 
And checks the murmurs as they fall ; 

She is the day-star of our hearts. 
Consoling, guiding, gladdening all. 

How am I like her ? — for she steals 
All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play 

218 



HOW AM I LIKE HER 

Is left for her ; and wild Youth kneels 
Obedient to her gentle sway ; 

And Age beholds her smile, and feels 
December brightening into May. 

How am I like her ? — The rude fir 
Is little like the sweet rose-tree : — 

Unless perchance, fair flatterer. 
In this your fabled likeness be, — 

That all who are most dear to her 
Are apt to be most dear to me. 



219 



LINES 

The hues of life are fading from her wan and 

wasted cheek ; 
Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint 

and weak ; 
But still we look and listen, for our hearts have 

never known 
Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness 

in a tone. 

She is passing from the world, from the weary 
world away. 

From the sorrows that afflict us, from the plea- 
sures that betray ; 

And another Home, a fairer Home, is opened 
to her sight. 

Where the summer shines for ever, where the 
roses know no blight. 

I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and 
the dawn, 

220 



LINES 

In our converse round the fireside, in our walk 
upon the lawn ; 

I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and 
in our care, 

In the breaking of our bread, and in the breath- 
ing of our prayer. 

And not the ring or brooch alone, but whatso- 
e'er we see. 

The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and 
the tree, 

Will bring her image back to us ; there is not in 
our heart 

A single hope — a single fear — in which she has 
no part. 

Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious 

toil is done ; 
O weep not, if you love her, that her holy rest is 

won! 
There should be gladness in your thought and 

smiles upon your brow, 
221 



LINES 

For will she not' be happy then ? — is she not 
happy now ? 

And we will learn to talk of her ; — and after 

many years 
The tears which we shall shed for her will not 

be bitter tears, 
When we shall tell each other, with a fond and 

thankful pride. 
In what purity she lived, and in what peaceful- 

ness she died. 



THE NEWLY-WEDDED 



Now the rite is duly done ; 

Now the word is spoken ; 
And the spell has made us one 

Which may ne'er be broken : 
Rest we, dearest, in our home, — 

Roam we o'er the heather, — 
We shall rest, and we shall roam. 

Shall we not ? together. 

II 

From this hour the summer rose 

Sweeter breathes to charm us ; 
From this hour the winter snows 

Lighter fall to harm us : 
Fair or foul — on land or sea — 

Come the wind or weather, 
Best and worst, whate'er they be. 

We shall share together. 
223 



THE NEWLY-WEDDED 
III 
Death, who friend from friend can part, 

Brother rend from brother. 
Shall but link us, heart and heart. 

Closer to each other : 
We will call his anger play. 

Deem his dart a feather, 
When we meet him on our way 

Hand in hand together. 



224 



TO HELEN 

WITH CRABBE's poems, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT 

Give Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf, 
A place by Wordsworth's mightier self; 
In token that your taste, self wrought 
From mines of independent thought, 
And shaped by no exclusive rule 
Of whim or fashion, sect or school, 
Can honour Genius, whatsoe'er 
The garb it chance or choose to wear. 

Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied 
The bards we station side by side; 
Different their harps, — to each his own; 
But both are true and pure of tone. 
Brethren, methinks, in times like ours 
Of misused gifts, perverted powers, — 
Brethren are they, whose kindred song 
Nor hides the Right, nor gilds the Wrong. 



225 



SONNET 

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF LOCKHART's 
"life of sir WALTER SCOTT" 

Lo the magician, whose enchantments lend 
To the dim past a fresh and fairy light, 
Who makes the absent present to our sight. 

And calls the dead to life ! Till time shall end. 

O'er him the grateful Muses shall extend 
Unfading laurels ; yet methinks, of right, 
With holier glory shall his fame be bright, — 

Leal subject, honest patriot, cordial friend. 

Of such a spirit, by your cheerful fire 

This record, Helen, welcome shall appear; 

To which your husband-lover's duteous lyre, 
Not tuneless yet, sweet Helen, to your ear. 

Adds the warm wish these winter eves inspire, 
" A merry Christmas, and a glad New Year ! " 



226 



TO HELEN 

When some grim sorceress, whose skill 
Had bound a sprite to work her will, 
In mirth or malice chose to ask 
Of the faint slave the hardest task, 

She sent him forth to gather up 
Great Ganges in an acorn-cup. 
Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring 
In compass of a signet ring. 

Thus Helen bids her poet write 
The thanks he owes this morning's light; 
And "Give me," — so he hears her say, — 
"Four verses, only four, to-day." 

Dearest and best! she knows, if wit 
Could ever half love's debt acquit. 
Each of her tones and of her looks 
Would have its four, not lines, but books. 

227 



TO HELEN 

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, 

When through your veil I saw your bright 
tear shine. 
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low. 

And felt your soft hand tremble into mine. 
That in so brief — so very brief a space. 

He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, 
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, 

The darker, sadder duties of the wife, — 
Doubts,fears, and frequent toil, and constantcare 

For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested ; 
The daily tendance on the fractious chair. 

The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. 

Yet not. unwelcomed doth this morn arise. 
Though with more gladsome beams it might 
have shone : 
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim 
eyes, 
In sickness, as in health, — bless you. My Own ! 



THE RED FISHERMAN 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

OR 

THE DEVIL'S DECOY 

Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! — Romeo and Juliet. 

The Abbot arose, and closed his book, 

And donned his sandal shoon. 
And wandered forth, alone, to look 

Upon the summer moon : 
A starlight sky was o'er his head, 

A quiet breeze around ; 
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed. 

And the waves a soothing sound : 
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught 

But love and calm delight; 
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought 

On his wrinkled brow that night. 
He gazed on the river that gurgled by. 

But he thought not of the reeds ; 
He clasped his gilded rosary. 

But he did not tell the beads ; 
231 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke 

The Spirit that dwelleth there ; 
If he opened his Hps, the words they spoke 

Had never the tone of prayer. 
A pious priest might the Abbot seem, 

He had swayed the crozier well ; 
But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, 

The Abbot were loth to tell. 

Companionless, for a mile or more, 

He traced the windings of the shore. 

Oh, beauteous is that river still. 

As it winds by many a sloping hill. 

And many a dim o'erarching grove. 

And many a flat and sunny cove. 

And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades 

The honeysuckle sweetly shades, 

And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers. 

So gay they are with grass and flowers ! 

But the Abbot was thinking of scenery 

About as much, in sooth, 
As a lover thinks of constancy, 
232 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

Or an advocate of truth. 
He did not mark how the skies in wrath 

Grew dark above his head ; 
He did not mark how the mossy path 

Grew damp beneath his tread ; 
And nearer he came, and still more near, 

To a pool, in whose recess 
The water had slept for many a year, 

Unchanged and motionless ; 
From the river stream it spread away 

The space of a half a rood ; 
The surface had the hue of clay 

And the scent of human blood ; 
The trees and the herbs that round it grew 

Were venomous and foul, 
And the birds that through the bushes flew 

Were the vulture and the owl ; 
The water was as dark and rank 

As ever a Company pumped. 
And the perch, that was netted and laid on the 
bank, 

Grew rotten while it jumped ; 
233 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

And bold was he who thither came 

At midnight, man or boy, 
For the place was cursed with an evil name, 

And that name was "The Devil's Decoy" ! 

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be, 
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree : 
When suddenly rose a dismal tone, — 
Was it a song, or was it a moan ? — 

"Oho! Oho! 

Above, — below, — 
Lightly and brightly they glide and go ! 
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping, 
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ; 
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, 
Broihng is rich when the coals are ruddy! " — 
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, 
He looked to the left and he looked to the right. 
And what was the vision close before him, 
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him ? 
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise. 
And the life-blood colder run : 
234 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

The startled Priest struck both his thighs. 
And the abbey clock struck one ! 

All alone, by the side of the pool, 
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool, 
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod, 
And putting in order his reel and rod ; 
Red were the rags his shoulders wore. 
And a high red cap on his head he bore ; 
His arms and his legs were long and bare ; 
And two or three locks of long red hair 
Were tossing about his scraggy neck, 
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck. 
It might be time, or it might be trouble. 
Had bent that stout back nearly double, 
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets 
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets. 
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin, 
Till it hardly covered the bones within. 
The line the Abbot saw him throw 
Had been fashioned and formed long ages 
ago, 

235 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

And the hands that worked his foreign vest 
Long ages ago had gone to their rest : 
You would have sworn, as you looked on them, 
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem ! 



There was turning df keys, and creaking of 

locks, 
As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly, — 
It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye ; 
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem, 
And its shape was the shape of a diadem. 
It was fastened a gleaming hook about 
By a chain within and a chain without ; 
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, 
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in ! 

From the bowels of the earth. 
Strange and varied sounds had birth ; 
Now the battle's bursting peal, 
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel; 
236 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

Now an old man's hollow groan 
Echoed from the dungeon stone ; 
Now the weak and wailing cry 
Of a stripling's agony! — 
Cold by this was the midnight air ; 

But the Abbot's blood ran colder, 
When he saw a gasping Knight lie there, 
With a gash beneath his clotted hair. 

And a hump upon his shoulder. 
And the loyal churchman strove in vain 

To mutter a Pater Noster ; 
For he who writhed in mortal pain 
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain — 

The cruel Duke of Gloster! 

There was turning of keys, and creaking of 

locks. 
As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
It was a haunch of princely size, 
Filling with fragrance earth and skies. 
The corpulent Abbot knew full well 
The swelling form, and the steaming smell; 
237 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

Never a monk that wore a hood 
Could better have guessed the very wood 
Where the noble hart had stood at bay, 
Weary and wounded, at close of day. 

Sounded then the noisy glee 
Of a revelling company, — 
Sprightly story, wicked jest, 
Rated servant, greeted guest. 
Flow of wine, and flight of cork. 
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork : 
But, where'er the board was spread, 
Grace, I ween, was never said ! — 
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat ; 

And the Priest was ready to vomit. 
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and 

fat. 
With a belly as big as a brimming vat. 

And a nose as red as a comet. 
"A capital stew," the Fisherman said, 

'* With cinnamon and sherry ! " 
And the Abbot turned away his head, 
238 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

For his brother was lying before him dead, 
The Mayor of St. Edmund's Bury! 

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks. 
As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
It was a bundle of beautiful things, — 
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, 
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, 
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl. 
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold 
Such a stream of delicate odours rolled. 
That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted, 
And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted. 

Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, 
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs. 
And the breath of vernal gales. 
And the voice of nightingales : 
But the nightinojales were mute. 
Envious, when an unseen lute 
Shaped the music of its chords 
Into passion's thrilling words : 
239 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

"Smile, Lady, smile! — I will not set 
Upon my brow the coronet, 
Till thou wilt gather roses white 
To wear around its gems of light. 
Smile, Lady, smile! — I will not see 
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, 
Till those bewitching lips of thine 
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. 
Smile, Lady, smile! — for who would win 
A loveless throne through guilt and sin ? 
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, 
If woman's heart were rebel still ? " 

One jerk, and there a lady lay, 

A lady wondrous fair ; 
But the rose of her lip had faded away. 
And her cheek was as white and as cold as 
clay, 

And torn was her raven hair. 
"Ah ha! " said the Fisher, in merry guise, 

" Her gallant was hooked before ; " 
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, 
240 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes. 
The eyes of Mistress Shore ! 

There was turning of keys, and creaking of 

locks, 
As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
Many the cunning sportsman tried, 
Many he flung with a frown aside ; 
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, 
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest. 
Jewels of lustre, robes of price, 
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice. 
And golden cups of the brightest wine 
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. 
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre. 
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre ! 

From top to toe the Abbot shook, 
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook, 
And awfully were his features wrought 
By some dark dream or wakened thought. 
Look how the fearful felon gazes 
241 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, 
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry 
With the thirst which only in death shall die : 
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown 
As the swaling wherry settles down, 
When peril has numbed the sense and will, 
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still : 
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance, 
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance: 
Fixed as a monument, still as air, 
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer ; 
But he signed — he knew not why or how, — 
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow. 

There was turning of keys, and creaking of 

locks. 
As he stalked away with his iron box. 
"Oho! Oho! 
The cock doth crow; 
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go. 
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! 
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line ; 
242 



THE RED FISHERMAN 

Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the 

south, 
The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth ! " 

The Abbot had preached for many years 

With as clear articulation 
As ever was heard in the House of Peers 

Against Emancipation ; 
His words had made battalions quake. 

Had roused the zeal of martyrs. 
Had kept the Court an hour awake. 

And the King himself three quarters : 
But ever from that hour, 't is said, 

He stammered and he stuttered, 
As if an axe went through his head 

With every word he uttered. 
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, 

He stuttered, drunk or dry; 
And none but he and the Fisherman 

Could tell the reason why! 



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